


Remembered Realms: The Year of the Drow

by Teakay



Series: Remembered Realms [1]
Category: Forgotten Realms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 88,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teakay/pseuds/Teakay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magic returns in a Toril of the far future, and reincarnated gods start to regain the memories and powers of their old selves. These old selves are not always welcome, especially when they start to clash. Diverges near the end of 3.5E.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Theris Frost

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: The Forgotten Realms aren't mine. Otherwise none of my stories would ever be Jossed. As it is…
> 
> SPOILERS: Are generously scattered throughout.
> 
> WARNINGS: All over the place. Sex and violence. Mental and physical disturbance. Angst and biased narration (please keep in mind that I don't necessarily agree with the characters).
> 
> The first fifteen chapters were previously posted on fanfiction.net
> 
> If you take pleasure (guilty or not) in divine shenanigans, blank slates, pseudo-existential moral conundrums, reincarnation fics, future fics, urban fantasy, and/or trying-to-be-clever naming schemes, or even if you don't, come on in. This may just be the place for you.

 

  
_We have sworn to avenge what has befallen our god and his fellows, to be sure, but vengeance must wait until we have determined who or what we are to avenge them upon. Given present circumstances, this may take some time._  
\- Arliannis of Hoar, Fateful Hand of Doom, 1603 DR

 

 

**THERIS**   
_(Gloved hand, two-faced coin)_   
_1 Mirtul, 2600 DR_

Theris heard the shot as he was coming down the hall. Seconds later, he found the apartment door. He listened for a few longer for context and, finding none, slipped Miss Tanthul's key into the lock.

The lights inside were off – drow had few reasons to have them on besides the convenience of guests – but the window was clear, and Theris could make out the figure on the right as he stepped in. He dove sideways in a rehearsed maneuver, expecting imminent gunfire or stabbing, but the face illuminated by the light from the hallway was certainly not the one he had studied and once he saw the blood on the floor he realized that he'd been beaten to it.

The presumable beater in question stared back. If it weren't for the gun dangling from his hand, and if it weren't for his ashen face, he might have been part of any adolescent crowd in a movie theater or chucking chakrams in the park. An elf, Theris figured, and though he was probably far older in objective years, by elven standards he looked to be a good chunk younger. In the back of Theris's head, things began to click together.

The elf spoke first, voice flat. "Do I know you?"

"Never seen you before," said Theris. "Not in this life, at least." He stood in front of another door, Theris saw now, probably into the bedroom or bathroom. Theris reached back and shut the front door behind him, pressing the switch on the electric torch in his hand.

The gun continued to dangle. "Oh," he said – he was clearly taken aback by Theris's last statement, but didn't seem particularly confused as he probably would have if Theris's intuition was wrong. "You're like me, then?"

Theris nodded. "Is he in there?"

"Who?"

"Kren Auzkovyn. The Second Snake." He added with a bite in his voice that was probably uncalled for but present regardless, glancing around the rest of the room as he spoke, "That's the one that lives here, in case you didn't happen to catch his name." He saw now that most of the glass was knocked out of the window, which would account for the other's entry point. Theris also noted what looked like a small bar in the far corner. He currently stood next to a sleek chair, one of several clustered around a coffee table with a shooting-star inlay.

"I… I think… yes. He locked himself in. I don't think he's dead yet." The elf tipped his head sideways. "It'll take a while to bleed out where I got him. That's what I'm hearing. It's not used to this." He glanced down at the gun, tightening his grip. "It's better with a bow. Are you here for… for the same thing, then?"

"Probably. I guess you'll want my name." He held out his free hand. "Theris Frost."  
Judging from the look on his face he hadn't thought he wanted it, but he placed his own hand palm down over Theris's. Theris barely felt it through the glove.

"The cameras are taken care of," Theris prompted, though somehow he doubted that was the problem.

He swallowed. "Rilashan Ilithaine."

Theris took another, unnecessary look at the table, moving the torch over it. From here, it looked like good quality, maybe an antique – by human standards, anyway. That was what he'd expect from Auzkovyn, who cultivated the image of a sophisticated successor to the original Serpent of Waterdeep. That one had been an elf too.

He heard a sharp intake of breath and turned to see Ilithaine staring at the table, muttering in what was presumably Elven. On noticing Theris's change of focus, he shifted to Common. "That _drow_. He dared to have _that_ … to show _that_ …as though he were…"

Theris swept the torch over the inlay again. There was nothing particularly offensive about the asymmetrical star that he could see. "This is an elf thing, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Far be it from me to be ethnocentric, but next to everything else he's done a table design seems like small potatoes."

Ilithaine looked strangely relieved. "Everything else?"

"The drugs, to start," said Theris, feeling his lip twist. But maybe he'd done something else to Ilithaine, maybe it was just that Ilithaine's particular power let him track down Auzkovyn but didn't let him know Auzkovyn's name let alone the rest of his crimes. "Then there's the bribery, the blackmail, the disappearances, the open murders. Personally, I'm here for Caron Moondown. Is he carrying? Weapons, anything?"

"He had a blade, but he dropped it." He indicated the switchblade in question; the torch beam lit it up lying among the bloodstains. "Might be he's got another, though, or he's picked up something else in the bathroom."

Theris stooped and picked up the blade, turning it about in his gloved fingers. "Might be. Does that door swing in or out?"

He blinked. "In."

"Right, then." He took what he'd read was the efficient position, back when he'd thought of being in the police, and after a time Ilithaine mimicked him. Before tucking away the blade and the torch, Theris glimpsed his face again and noticed anew the way Rilashan Ilithaine bit his lip, his numb voice (with the notable exception of the indignation over Auzkovyn's choice of decor). Theris had to wonder if he'd be in the same state himself if he'd happened to arrive earlier.

"On three?" Ilithaine murmured suddenly. There was something new in his tone now, something savage rushing beneath the surface. Theris nodded, then wondered if Ilithaine had seen it in the dark. In any case, Ilithaine began to count soon after – in Elven again, but Theris guessed his progress by the intonation and rammed himself into the door at the same time.

The door went down far more easily than it ever had in Theris's late-night ruminations, and as he burst inside he lifted and stomped one foot as he had practiced. The resulting boom resonated in the confined space, overlapping with the sound of the gunshot. Even as his lagging thought processes reflected on the probable state of his sanity given that he was expecting such a mad thing to work, the figure of Kren Auzkovyn slumped against the counter with his hands to his ears, letting his gun clatter to the floor.

Theris hurriedly reached into Ilithaine's forward path. It wasn't particularly effective, but it did slow Ilithaine enough for him to back off and turn to Theris after what sounded like kicking the gun away. "Something you've got to do?"

"You could say that," said Theris. He reached for the bathroom light, fumbled the dial to full strength, and glanced back at the door lintel, now cracked by a bullet, before returning his attention to Auzkovyn.

Auzkovyn groaned, eyes closed. His black skin seemed now more of a dark gray. He had shifted his hands from his ears to his bare torso, where blood seeped from between his fingers. Beneath his hands, Theris could make out what looked like a wadded pajama top. His eyes flicked open, pupils constricting, and just as quickly flicked shut. Theris bent down, reached into the back of his head, and went with the flow. "The Marl Venkyr whiskey for you, right?"

Auzkovyn could certainly recognize his own idiosyncratic mockery of the dying. His eyes opened again, wide and red as the puddles on the tiles. Ilithaine had kicked the gun through one of said puddles, Theris saw now, and it had fetched up against the shower door after leaving red streaks in its wake.

"Ilithaine," said Theris, "did you see the bar back there?" He wondered idly what Ilithaine's reaction would be if the Second Snake happened to stock elverquisst or Evereskan Clearwater.

"Yes."

He delved into his pocket and offered Ilithaine the plastic-wrapped packet of tissues. "Would you get the man a glass of it? Or," he said to Auzkovyn, "would you rather something else for the occasion?"

"Venkyr's fine," Auzkovyn grit out. His eyes had closed again, his legs drawn up.

"You didn't ask Caron, as far as anyone knows," said Theris. "Then again, she's eleven. That wouldn't have been _proper_. The only thing she's old enough for is a hit-and-run."

" _Eleven_?"

Ilithaine had taken a handful of tissues, and now they crumpled in his hand as he repeated, " _Eleven_? You said _Moondown_? Was she-"

"One of her great-something grandparents was a half-elf. Her father told me that once."

This time Ilithaine's Elven mutterings no longer qualified as mutterings by any stretch of the imagination. In his rapid fire of words Theris's mind caught several phrases – _N'Tel'Quess_ , _Tel'Quess, dhaerow, Erevan_ , capped off with an enraged cry. At this volume Theris was able to cross-reference the cry with his memories of subtitled Drannor films and come up with a translation – " _You dared – you dare!"_

Auzkovyn was actually glaring at Ilithaine now, even as he clutched at his wounds. He choked out a reply, which Theris gathered ran something along the lines of _"So did Elaith Craulnober._ "

Ilithaine lunged. Theris leapt up and seized his arms, though he could not have said exactly why. He propelled Ilithaine toward the door, gasping "Could you please get the Venkyr?"

After a few wrenching seconds, Ilithaine slumped and looked back, biting his lip again. "Sure. Sure." He slipped out of Theris's grip and then out of the bathroom, shoving the broken door aside.

Theris returned his attention to Auzkovyn. "She hasn't woken up yet. Gory Jake, now – _he_ woke up, and he was very accommodating. So was Officer Dundragon. Seems he didn't think running over a little girl to get to her father was something he could overlook like he did dealing Lady. They told me about your little courtesy for those of age. Thought I might as well return the favor."

"Moondown…?"

" _Officer_ Moondown, as you know him." He added, "A confession isn't necessary, but you haven't much to lose by making one, and it could be better for you in the long run."

Auzkovyn said nothing for a time, and Theris felt gripped by abrupt suppositions – what if he _hadn't_ been behind it? Unlikely in the extreme, he knew – Sam Moondown had been gathering evidence against _his_ operations. The driver had been one of _his_ known cronies. Everything pointed the same direction. But what if – what if… and if so, then what? If he didn't do it and he didn't die why then Theris had just exposed Jake and Dundragon…

Auzkovyn murmured, "When are you going to snuff me?"

"You haven't had your last drink yet." He thought he could hear Ilithaine pouring it now.

"Should I thank you?"

"That's not necessary. It's _your_ whiskey."

Silence. "So what's she to you?"

 _She's Sam's daughter, is what she is._ "She's an innocent."

"Innocent. What – ah! Ah!" His hands jerked from the wound, then slammed back. "– what're you doing to Shar?"

"Shar? Ah. _That_ Shar. I've nothing planned." This was truthful enough; Shardax Telenna didn't appear nearly as deeply involved as his lover. He might be out for blood when he got the news, as was his right, but he'd have to find out whose blood first. That was where knowing Grace Tanthul came in handy.

His face twisted. "I… I want your word you or your nutjob friend won't go barging in on _him_ of a night." He stiffened, curling up somewhat; he obviously knew very well how poor a bargaining position he had. "For whatever your word's worth. I can't do comparison shopping, can I?"

"It's worth more than yours, and I'll give it you for myself. As for my colleague, I'm sure we can work something out, but it may be a good idea not to be too loud about him just yet."

"Fine. Yes. That… that nutjob's going to do it anyway, I figure. Might as well die for something besides buying a table that clashes with my skin… don't you think?" He groaned again. "For that, I should have picked up a damn moonblade at least. Anyway. This Cara."

"Caron."

"Caron. I told him to paint the sidewalk. Paint the sidewalk with her. With his youngest. Moondown has three more, right? Plenty of chances to change his mind. You're not one of them, are you?"

"No." He turned halfway and called, "Ilithaine? We may be a while." Lowering his voice, he whispered as he turned back, "Now about Shardax."

"What about Shar?"

"I'm thinking that you're very quick to own up. Don't you think?"

"What – what are you talking about? Didn't you say –"

"Right. I said. But I can't help but be a doubter. Given your relationship, I'm thinking maybe _he_ did it for you."

"No."

"Maybe he did it, and you're covering-"

"No –" Auzkovyn's cry as he tried to stand transmuted into an outright scream of pain as he fell back down. His feet made spastic movements against the tile. Theris flinched; his ears weren't elven, but he heard an answering cry from outside, thin and half-choked. Ilithaine? "I did it! I did it, isn't that what you wanted? I confessed, all right? Fucking _execute_ me and get it over with!"

Theris tilted his head as something else came forward. Yes, of course. He produced the switchblade, tugging the glove on his other hand to expose part of his wrist. He pressed that spot of bare skin against Auzkovyn's damp forehead, closing his eyes as he called up this second ability.

"Gods, not Shar. Not Shar."

"You tried to kill Caron Moondown."

"I –"

Yes. That was it. He could feel probability shift as it would if the accusation was true, sending Auzkovyn to a poetic fate that he would be meeting quite shortly.

But then, whispered another crowd of suppositions, if Theris was hallucinating he'd feel probability shifting as he damn well wanted it to shift. _I didn't hallucinate the boom_ , he thought. _I didn't hallucinate the thunder. I may be a fledgling serial killer, but if I am I'm a magical one. He deserves it even without Caron._  
  
"Please. Not Shar."

"No, not him," he said, readjusting his glove and pocketing the blade. "I'm sorry. I should have thought of doing that before I worried you about it." He wondered what Ilithaine would think he'd done to make Auzkovyn scream.

Ilithaine came in when called, a filled wineglass in hand. He'd wrapped the tissues around the stem, and Theris slipped them off as he passed the glass to Auzkovyn. Auzkovyn downed the whiskey and dropped the glass to shatter on the tile before clapping his hand back to the wound. His eyes were glassy. He seemed to moan with each breath.

Theris took out the switchblade again and flicked it open. "May your god prove more merciful than us."

It took longer and was messier than Theris had imagined it would be.

 

 ***

"Miss Tanthul knows the super," he was explaining blocks away. "She's someone like us, and she took his key for long enough to have it duplicated." The key stayed in his pocket for now, until he could find a good dump point. "She also took care of the security cameras. And she found out that he'd be in early this morning, to get ready to meet… someone." He generally liked his word good, and it seemed to him that a good way to stop Ilithaine going after Auzkovyn's lover was to stop him knowing of said lover's existence let alone species. "Do you want me to introduce you?"

Afterward, Ilithaine's voice had gone entirely wispy. "If you like."

The sun was rising by now. "I've been there," he said, pointing toward the diner on the corner, because it seemed like something to say. "My treat."

Ilithaine nodded near-imperceptibly. "What do you know about your…" He put a hand to his heart. "You know?"

"Mine is Assuran," said Theris. "Or at least an Assuran complex. It's all consistent with the mythology. The thunder, for instance. How about yours? I'm rusty on the elven ones. All I can think of right now is Corellon Larethian."

"I wouldn't be surprised if you'd never heard of mine," Ilithaine whispered. "I'm not _sure-sure_ it's that one yet, mind, but I can't think what else. It was minor to start with, and it's not exactly talked about these days. 's socially unacceptable."

Theris could guess why.

"It doesn't want me to smile."

"Tall order."

"I don't think it'll be a problem."


	2. Kiira Craulnober

_I can't help but suspect that the current state of affairs is the Fey Jester's greatest prank yet, a fine example of leaving us to make our own luck, though I haven't yet worked out how the drow figure in._

\- Lyndrassil Starcloak, circa 1620 DR

 

**KIIRA**

_(Shooting star)_

The first thing he told the caller as he jumped off the bed was "You're heartless." He pretended a yawn for punctuation, though this time he hadn't been _so_ tired as to drop off in actual sleep instead of Reverie. His Reverie, now –

"Heartless for calling at eleven?" said Veldrin on the other end.

Several seconds later, strolling around his room, Kiira realized that Veldrin didn't sound as airy and joking as he'd expected.

_Oh, it's a rare wild Veldrin Auzkovyn Pissy Voice. Listen closely, ladies and gents. Only one ranger in the wide world has been able to bring out the wild variety of this incredibly shy, retiring creature. But it's amazing how little it took to coax this particular little fellow!_

"I was Weaving. Labelas cuts corners then, don't you know." He did another yawn.

"Get over here. If you have the guts."

"I don't." He counted out five seconds. Veldrin didn't cut off. "Wish is my command, Your Tallness," he said before cutting off himself.

Of course, after that there was nothing for it but to go round the back of the Auzkovyns' house and climb in Veldrin's window. If Veldrin's wish was his command, Kiira made for a contrary genie.

He took the long way round. His parents were already out, most of the people Kiira's age were in school this year, and he was disappointed at how few times he was able to wave and yell a greeting on the way through High Forest. When he was getting closer to the Auzkovyns', he went so far as to yell to one of Veldrin's posse, a bookish type he'd been introduced to at a party. As at the party, the other boy nodded quickly at Kiira and fled. "No call for _that_ ," Kiira told the empty air, and decided next time he'd have to pull a really good prank on that one. He obviously needed some perking.

He gradually worked his way to the right tree and began to clamber silently up the branches, trying to avoid the windows of the sections of the house distributed around the trunk. Over the years, he thought he'd gotten quite good at it. At last, he swung up to the box that served as Veldrin's room – and nearly stumbled back when he saw Veldrin staring at him through a window.

"That one's _old_ ," said Veldrin, still sounding pissy as he slid the window across. "I knew it was this or your not showing at all-" He fiddled with the latch for the window screen. "-and it's not like I have anywhere to go at the moment." The screen slid over as well, leaving nothing interspersed that might explain why Veldrin's hair was now a vivid green, quite a nice shade in Kiira's opinion.

Kiira stayed perched on the thick branch for now, fidgeting idly in preparation for the leap, and asked the obvious. "When'd you do your hair?"

From the look on Veldrin's face, Kiira might as well have asked when he fell through a chimney and blackened his skin. "When did _I_? When did _I_? Nice try, Craulnober. For such a screwball, you're in a rut lately. _You're_ the one who sneaks in at all hours and fiddles the locks. _You're_ the one who's mad about green. _You're_ the one who _pulls_ this sort of thing. You think you can stop playing silly buggers for just one moment?"

Kiira decided it was best to remain on the branch.

"Another thing," said Veldrin, "what was the point of leaving _more_ hair around...? Don't tell me you Jarled someone's head for that! Jezz Ulo's already scarred for life."

"I didn't Jarl anyone," said Kiira, truthfully enough. Then, because he thought he'd better, he added, "I'm being framed." He paused before adding clarification. "I didn't do your hair either. Which is why I asked. It looks you."

"It's green," Veldrin stated the obvious.

"The forest's green. All right, it's brown and such too," he headed off the likely bout of nitpicking, "but green is the main thing." He considered running now and drifting back maybe a couple of tendays later as per usual, but there was no telling how long Veldrin would stay preoccupied if he did that. Kiira wasn't much for justifying himself, but he was even less for the uncomfortable life Veldrin with a grudge could make for him. "And you know this lot –" He waved a hand in the forest's general direction, which was to say in a circle. "– like the back of your hand, right? So. It looks you. See?" In case this discourse stirred up Veldrin's suspicion anew, he added anew, "But I didn't do it. 's a good trick. Only I can't take credit, because I didn't do it."

"Yes," said Veldrin. "You said that." He stepped back. Kiira watched him a moment longer, then leapt inside.

It _was_ a good trick. There didn't look to be any errant white roots in Veldrin's hair or green stains around the room – unless he'd changed it or cleaned it after waking up, which wouldn't be surprising, and anyhow most everything in the room was some dark color to begin with. There was in fact a generous amount of white hair scattered on the Reverie couch, standing out against the black upholstery, and it did in fact look as though someone had taken a shaver to a hapless fellow like Jezz Uloavae (probably not Jezz himself – his hair had looked fine when he was running from Kiira).

Veldrin sat on the couch now, picking up a half-full glass of soda from the table nearby. "So. The obvious. If it wasn't you…"

Kiira shrugged. "Someone who knows me."

"There's no shortage. You've made sure of that." He gave the glass a shake. "Soda?"

"Got grape?"

"Sure." Veldrin stood and walked to the doorway, soda in hand. From his long look back, he didn't trust Kiira not to draw on the walls in his absence. Kiira shrugged and followed.

"I'm surprised you let me near the silver," he said once downstairs in the kitchen.

"I wouldn't if it was real silver." Veldrin retrieved a familiar purple can from the refrigerator. "I'm not letting you near the wine, either, so don't ask."

Kiira took the can. "I said it wouldn't happen again."

"That's what you always say," said Veldrin without rancor.

" _Is_ Jezz okay? Jezz Ulo?"

"He's stopped twitching around stamps. That could be okay."

"Needs to lighten up," said Kiira. "Stop twitching at all."

Veldrin sounded on the defensive, as he should have guessed he would when it came to his chosen lot. "You're not helping that."

Kiira popped the can open and held up his free hand. "Hey now, he could use a bit of lighting."

"He halfway disappears under light."

Veldrin's hair was looking more intriguing by the moment. There remained the question of who _had_ done it. Maybe it was Veldrin himself, taking it into his head to pull one back on Kiira. That didn't seem quite like him – though Kiira did think, now it was in place, that green hair suited him very well.

"Do you know what I think, Craulnober?" said Veldrin. "I think that you're going to live close on forever. When you finally bite it, the first queen of Evermeet will want to know your secret." Kiira remembered one time when he'd said that the mother Veldrin had to have had at some point could even be Evermeet royalty. Veldrin had gone cranky and told him not to be ridiculous. "And I think you know that, somewhere in there, so you've taken it into your head to act like a little boy for a proportional chunk."

"What does that say about you?" At some point, Kiira's feet had carried him across the kitchen, to the other side of the dining table and the chairs around it, the entire set looking like it was streamlined for flight. Now he started working his way back to Veldrin, who was sipping his own soda. "You figure you'll die young? Year in Drannor at your age and all?"

"Not at all," said Veldrin, lowering the glass. Kiira noted how the green glinted in the sunlight coming through the window. "I figure I may as well make efficient use of my time. I did _qualify_ at my age," he added in that way he had. It wasn't such an elusive part of him as his anger; it slipped out often enough around others, but they didn't seem to mind so much. "Not many reasons not to go."

"And I don't think I'd want to stay a boy so long," said Kiira. He was passing the counters now. "Little boys can't drink, can they?"

"Little boys like you want to. It's one of the things about being grown they like the sound of."

Veldrin's lot liked it when he said things like this around them; he hardly ever did it to them, after all. He did it to people they weren't inclined to like in the first place. But he liked Kiira well enough, Kiira figured, else why did they hang about together? It was just another thing Veldrin didn't hide when it was the two of them. There was something vaguely flattering about that, but Kiira hadn't got round to picking out just what that was.

"Could be," he said, bobbing his head, as he wove closer. An idea began bobbing to the turbulent surface of his thoughts. "Could be."

Veldrin leaned against the counter. He didn't look quite so annoyed now, and what annoyance there was wasn't directed at Kiira. Kiira judged it at a sufficiently low level to pull off his idea, which kept dipping under at a steady clip but gave him a good series of glimpses, enough for him to know the shape of it. Veldrin's talk of childhood had made him think of one of the incidents caught in the old family vids, where not-yet-Kiira (the vids were that old, and he'd been that young) had asked for a cookie and duly granted himself permission, so in a way Veldrin was really bringing this on himself.

"Say…" he said, and Veldrin looked at him. For a moment, his eyes seemed almost as green as his hair. Some sort of light trick, Kiira could figure out which one later if he remembered to. He waited one-two-three, as still as he got, and sprang. "Can I get a closer peek? Thank you!"

Veldrin's hands flew up, but Kiira got a handful. He was leaning forward – because he did want to see it, it looked like such a neat job – and then, with just the slightest tug, a chunk of Veldrin's hair came out easier than taking apart a sugar cloud. In the next fraction of a moment, Veldrin grabbed his wrist.

An unnaturally long second later, with hair slipping from his opened hand, Kiira said, "I didn't do it. Really."

 

***

 

"Hey, you've already got stubble."

Veldrin let the lid of the trash can descend with a clang, covering a pile of what resembled lawn clippings. "Is that supposed to be some super obscure in-joke? Or are you just being –"

"No, really." Kiira squinted at the back of Veldrin's head. "'s coming in red this time, looks like. Did they run weird experiments at Drannor or something?" But Drannor _had_ been a while ago. He paused. "Or are you sick? Never heard of a disease like this."

"There's a lot you haven't heard of." Veldrin headed back upstairs. Kiira trailed him to the closet, where he went about picking headwear. His hats and caps were dark as most of the rest of his wardrobe.

"I know," said Kiira. "Try one with a big feather in."

"I haven't got any, good for me."

"I could lend you one of mine."

" _One_ of yours?"

"Well, if you ask nice you can have two. What are friends for?"

"You have more than one hat with a giant feather, you're saying."

"Well, yeah, guess I'm saying that."

"Is that counting the one you wore to that costume party?" He turned halfway toward Kiira, eyes narrowed. "The _Jarlaxle_ hat?"

"Oh, forget it. It would just be desecrating his legacy, anyhow, giving a hat like that to someone frowny as you."

"Only you would look at my fucking hair falling out repeatedly and think a frown is out of place. Only you. Huh," said Veldrin, donning his distinctly unfeathered selection, "come to think of it, you and maybe fucking Jarlaxle."

"It was my best costume yet," said Kiira. "Skin aside. Don't you think?"

"Some _costume_."

"Mayae thought it was funny." He wondered a moment later if he'd gotten round to mentioning Mayae.

Veldrin quickly answered this wondering as he sat back on the Reverie couch. "This would be your newest best friend forever?"

"Aw, Your Tallness, you know you're always first in my heart." Veldrin raised an eyebrow. "But yeah, she's why I was zonking at eleven this morning. Bet you'd like her."

"Mayae." Veldrin's eyebrow went higher as he spoke. "Drow name, isn't it?"

"Yup. And her last name's Veladorn – imagine that, Veladorn –"

"Kiira, this may come as a shock, so listen carefully and remember to breathe. Sharing skin and possibly hair and eye color is not grounds for 'liking' someone."

Kiira thought Veldrin was a fine one to talk, given his knack for gathering most all the drow boys in High Forest. They ranged from Madh Helder, who was an Assimilationist and half human, to Driz and Jezz Ulo, whose parents were historians. "No, really. She's going to Silverymoon this year – ha ha, I just attract those types, don't I?" He seated himself on the arm of the couch, kicking fitfully. "Her nameday's even the same as yours. Well, almost."

"I revise. Sharing skin color, possibly hair and eye color, and a nameday is not grounds for 'liking' someone."

"Just so's you know, she doesn't. Have the same color hair and eyes as you. They're silver, like that girl in Graverending Six. Pretty pretty."

"Like a girl in _Graverending_ and you think she's pretty?"

"Well, yes," said Kiira. "I'm not talking about one of the _zombies_ , of course. I'm talking… hey, I've got the Special Edition at home, you want to come over and see?"

"Not necessary."

"Really. Honest-to-Corellon silver. She's got a picture on her profile."

"Then Silverymoon's a great place for her, isn't it?"

Kiira nodded. Veldrin pulled the cap further down on his head.

"Say, Veldrin."

"What?"

"You don't think it's scalp cancer or something?" he asked, and quickly regretted it.

"Why? Do you want a head start running away?"

"No I don't. What makes you think," he said, nausea blooming along with the treacherous image of Veldrin _sick_ -sick, seriously sick, withered in a hospital, "I'd run away?"

"You've needed little enough reason before. And it's not like I've had time to go to the _doctor_ , how should I know any better than you if it's some kind of fucking scalp cancer or not?"

True, there wasn't usually a _reason_ for Kiira to wander off. Usually there wasn't an argument or anything. It'd just happen that Kiira would wake up and think – he wasn't sure what he thought. He wouldn't call Veldrin _clingy_ but that was the closest word he could figure – that he was being clung to.  It was just getting too close. So then he'd up and go, and when he came back it would all be easy again.

"No, no." Kiira waved his hands. "Forget about it, all right? Now I remember last year of school, chemistry, there was some kind of soup that could make your hair fall out. I figure someone who's got more savvy about it than me could maybe mix it up with dye? Make it green and make it fall out?" That didn't account for the red stubble he was pretty sure he'd seen, but he figured it was a good enough go. It did well enough to shove away the talk of illness.

"Hmm."

Veldrin could take care of it, he decided. Veldrin could get himself to a doctor, and later he could explain it all to Kiira with that know-better voice of his. Right. No more talking about the hair, especially since now Veldrin nearly had the cap over his ears. Do more of what he was known for, what came easy. Hop back into his "rut" for a bit.

"Say," he said, "I had the weirdest dreams in Reverie this morning."

Veldrin nodded slightly, indicating that he keep talking.

"Okay, first there was this weird one. Something about the moon. Maybe it was all the thinking about Silverymoon leaking in my head…" Veldrin rolled his eyes. "Now the second, and this is the really good one, almost like a movie, it was like I was stuck on the ceiling of this place in some city. Waterdeep maybe." He bounced slightly. "Looking down. And there was this… I don't know, some guy who wanted to be like the Snake. You know, my dear departed great-something-grandfather. Maybe that's why I think it was Waterdeep. See, this guy was a drow. An Auzkovyn too, as it happens. And then there were these two other people, and since he wanted to be like the Snake he'd _done_ things like the Snake did –"

 He stopped. Veldrin was staring at him, and there was no light trick he could imagine that could make those eyes seem as green as his own, as green as he was definitely seeing now. Then Veldrin said, "You too?"


	3. Ariel Shessair

_Gond saw what straits the mortals would be left in without magic, and gave Toril a gift. Before he succumbed to join the other gods, he created a second Weave. It was not a shadow. It was small but independent, made of thousands upon thousands of masterfully crafted strands, and it would endure and provide while the old Weave slept._

_Mystra, seeing this, sighed in relief and closed her eyes._

\- Excerpt from _Chronicle of the Unseen Enemies_ , author(s) unknown, circa 1700 DR

 

**ARIEL**

_(Seven stars)_

_10 Alturiak, 2600 DR_

The first thing she said when she came back to the dorm that night was "You dropped archery?"

Mayae was stretched out on her bed with her hair fanned across her back. She looked up from her textbook and shrugged.

 "Everyone was in conniptions." Ariel undid her own ponytail, giving it a shake. "They usually grade like a bitch, but you? You had them around your pinky. Do you maybe think your average's too high?"

Mayae shrugged again. Ariel huffed and sat down at her computer.

Several minutes passed. Ariel was polishing her Literature essay when Mayae said, "I don't know quite why." Ariel looked at her and she went on, "It's, I don't know, like a phobia. I keep thinking it's going too well. You know, like something's going to go wrong and when it does it'll go big. Like putting out someone's eye."

She couldn't resist the urge to try and pick it out. "What about fencing?" No, it was a more cultural name. "Sword dancing," she corrected herself. "Isn't that _more_ dangerous? I mean, you're _trying_ to hit people half the time."

"Yes. I did say I didn't know quite why."

"Mm-hm."

"I did _try_ to," said Mayae, sitting up. "I know it's stupid. I just couldn't do it anymore."

"That's too bad," said Ariel, trying to be sympathetic.

Mayae sank back to her reading, deeper into what looked like one of her somber moods. Ariel turned back to the essay, glancing over every few minutes. She was fairly used to it by now, but sometimes she was still startled when Mayae started singing out of nowhere, sat for hours scribbling over sheets of poetics, joined the Lunar Club despite having no more interest in religion than she did in the weather in Sembia… or dropped archery.

 

***

 

_23 Tarsakh_

"My mom told me once that I was in the lost and found at the Palace Museum," said Ariel, "and that's why I'm a Shessair. She's a Shessair because they found her in a garbage can. They just ripped it off from the story."

Mayae silently regarded the smoking hole in the blanket and the corresponding scorch on the sheet beneath, both in the shape of Ariel's open hand. It was a dubious miracle that the alarm hadn't gone off yet.

"I know she was lying about the other things you lie to kids about," said Ariel, "but I actually kept believing her on that one. It figures."

" _Aillesel Seldarie_ ," said Mayae. "Is your hand all right now?"

"Sure. Sure it's all right. My hand is not the victim here. I don'tneed _this_ before finals –" As Ariel waved the offending hand, a stack of books went sliding an arm's length, off the edge of her desk. "Oh for the love of –" She waved her hand again, as though sweeping them toward her; who knew? With everything else, it might work.

As most of them landed in a thumping flurry of pages, her physics textbook jerked out of free fall and shot horizontally into her gut.

"Shit fuck _owww_!"

Mayae hurried forward. As Ariel leaned against the desk, flinging the book to the floor with its fellows, the impact point on her cardigan burst into silver flame. Ariel almost cursed again at the thought of losing her prized bargain cardigan on top of everything before noticing that this flame didn't seem to be actually burning anything, and the pain of the blow was fading fast. Like the earlier fire, it didn't trip the smoke alarm – thank Tymora for small favors. "About time you did something _useful,_ " she told it as it faded, leaving her clothes intact. Then she set about picking up the books with Mayae's help. The cover of _The Collected Volothamp Geddarm, Volume I_ went up at one point, and they kept listening for the alarm to figure out what had just transpired, but otherwise everything went back on the desk without incident.

"Maybe we should go out," said Mayae a few minutes later, when the potholders she'd lent Ariel began to send up alarming little wisps. "Relax a bit. I don't think the stress is helping."

"I can't go out," said Ariel. "I can't even figure out how I'd _eat_. I'd mess up the glasses. And the silverware, don't let me get started on the silverware."

"Just… out. You know, the hill. Kick back. And tomorrow you can call your mother."

"Oh yeah, I'm calling her all right."

Mayae looked at the potholders again. "We'd better go now."

The hill was on the outskirts of campus. At the highest point of its gentle slope, it was about equal to one story. It was where the Lunar Club usually met, where classes from the nearby Nojheim Pengallen sometimes came for picnics, and – Ariel had learned sometime between Eleasias and Tarsakh – it  was Mayae's favorite spot when she felt like going out and dancing in the middle of the night. She did that while Ariel wandered, occasionally sizzling blades of grass or ripping them from the ground with invisible force. It was a fairly warm night, which was lucky, since she'd shed the cardigan rather than run the risk of damaging it before she figured out how to turn off what, for simplicity's and irony's sake, she'd decided to call spellfire. She thought the telekinesis could come in handy, though, and she amused herself with working on her control of it. If her hands kept burning things, at least she had that to work with. Of course, she'd have to explain it to everyone, but…

Motes of silver light were twirling around Mayae as she leaped near the top of the hill. Fireflies, Ariel thought at first, but she was pretty sure the color was wrong and anyway they were too clustered around her, with not a one to be seen anywhere else in the dark. "Hey," she called when Mayae seemed to be settling.

"Yes?"

"Are those fireflies?"

Mayae examined the motes as their whirl began to slow. "They're not."

 

***

 

_24 Tarsakh_

"She thought I was joking," Ariel reported when Mayae got back from her first class of the day. "I guess that means she wasn't lying after all. Or else she's very good at it. No point in asking her, then."

She'd slept with her hands muffled in damp towels, dangling over the bed frame, and was vaguely disappointed when the towels were intact in the morning. She'd dreamed of Shandril Shessair going up in flames that night. She'd dreamed of visiting the Palace Museum, looking at the carved wands and rods. Maybe there was something important in those dreams, but she wasn't sure how the one about green jelly fit in, or the one about the rubber duck, or the one where she was in a rollerskating race.

Mayae had taken out her dream log before heading out. She kept it assiduously, and if asked would explain at length about subconscious flotsam. She thumbed through the shine-edged blue pages now, taking notes on another sheet of paper. Maybe she was looking for anything about silver not-fireflies. Ariel thought that if elven Reverie worked anything the same as other dreams, she'd probably have something about them quite soon.

 

***

 

When Ariel came back in several hours later, paper bags closed off around her wrists with scrunchies and done given the eleventh explanation about a sudden rash ("Guess it's stress," she'd said), Mayae showed her the latest page of the log. Ariel stared at the uncharacteristically scrawled Elven – looking particularly odd next to the meticulous-looking entries further up – until Mayae translated. "It says Seniadra Moonflower."

Ariel thought back through her history classes. Moonflower – that was the surname of the royal family of Evermeet. "Princess, prince, or what?"

"Out of those two, I'd say princess," said Mayae. "Oh, and I called Mom. She doesn't know either. But Seniadra might."

"You got her name in a dream?"

"In a series," said Mayae. "I've been having them off and on since the middle of Alturiak. She's been… astrally projecting herself. Or something. I got it out of her this Reverie. I mean, what she meant to tell me, which wasn't that much. But I think she knows what's going on. Better than our parents, anyway. She does exist." She waved to her computer, which still had search results pulled up.

"What kind of dreams were these?"

"About the moon. The moon and the fog. Most of the really obvious ones were around the full moon."

"Maybe because you were thinking more about the moon then?"

"Maybe. But given everything else… And there's this." Mayae slid open her desk drawer, removed something, and turned. A ring sat in her open hand. It had a pale round stone in (what else?) a silver setting.

"I'm guessing you didn't go shopping."

"It was there when I woke up." She put it back in her desk. "I'm going to have it looked at. With everything else, I'm guessing it's a moonstone."

Ariel fumbled out the zip bag full of charred plastic gloves and dumped it into the trash. "I don't suppose she's got anything she could send over for this? Ring of fire extinguishing or something?"

"I asked. We'll see."

 

***

 

_25 Tarsakh_

Mayae was wearing the moonstone on her left hand. She handed Ariel a pair of long white gloves. They smelled odd, but Ariel pulled them on and flexed her fingers. The fabric was surprisingly thin and soft, almost like another layer of skin; it melded perfectly to her hands, which weren't acting up for now.

"I think we'll have better communication from here on out," said Mayae. "The moon's waxing, and I gave her my email."

"Oh."

"She says they should work as long as you don't _try_ to burn anything, and it'll probably taper off, especially if you stay calm. She'll explain more when she emails."

"Okay then," said Ariel, "thanks," and went to print out another copy of her history paper. She'd crumpled the last one as soon as she saw it start, holding it between her bare hands underneath her desk so nobody saw the ashes, and when the smoke alarm went off she'd acted as mystified as everyone else filing out. The last thing she needed was being carried off by spooks or scientists. _Especially_ with finals.

"And speaking of that," said Mayae. "They checked our detector. It's twisted around inside, the wiring and everything. No wonder it didn't go off." She indicated the empty space on the ceiling. "They'll have in a replacement soon."

Ariel tried to remember if she'd made any gestures toward the thing as she'd realized what was happening to the bedding the first time. She didn't recall any in specific, but the more she considered it the more she thought some might have been in there. It would figure.

 

***

Ariel carried in a stack of library books – now would be a fine time for Princess Moonflower's present to give out – and put them on the bed. "Look at this. The one on the top." Mayae stopped brushing out her hair and picked up the thick volume at the top of the stack, _Deities for the Dumb_. Ariel had put in two sticky notes at the relevant points in Section Nine: Gods of the Elves, and Mayae thumbed to the first one.

"I was looking for what the moon and fog might mean," said Ariel, "and someone in Lunar Club said maybe we should be reading theology, so… I looked. What do you think?"

Mayae finished skimming and turned to the second sticky.

"That one's a guess," said Ariel, "but if it does have something to do with religion I thought she fit all right. With the fireflies. And dropping archery."

"Yes," said Mayae, staring at the page. "It does, doesn't it?"

"I mean, you probably know all this already –" Out of osmosis if nothing else. "– but…"

Mayae closed the book. "I did know, but gods weren't my first thought, so I didn't make the connection. I'd maybe think religious delusion, except we're… not exactly the type, are we?"

"Right." She sat on the bed, examining the white gloves. They were still pristine, in a slightly creepy way. She'd spilled chowder on them at lunch, and it had slipped right off leaving neither stain nor smell in its wake. "She hasn't emailed yet?"

"She hasn't."

"That's too bad." She began to go through another of the books, purportedly written by a high priest of Savras at a point where he could have used magic. "Say the gods have something to do with this. Any guesses about the something?"

Mayae tilted her head. "I'd say... clerical calling? But there's that detail."

"Yeah. Not exactly the type."

"Yes." Mayae raised and lowered one shoulder. "If they wanted religion they could have had their pick of the rest of the Lunar Club."

"So, say they go on vacation for a millennium. They come back with sunburn and souvenirs… and they figure things have pretty much gone to pot and they need to fill out their clergy straightaway? With _us_?" Ariel threw up her hands. "Not very considerate of them."

Mayae shrugged.


	4. Tarlyn Argith

_The first time the Prince of the Aranea departed, we knew he was not destroyed. We knew he would return, and he did, did he not? We would have been faithless indeed to jump to the dire assumptions the other races make._

_Pay no heed to the talk of the drow. They have ever envied us, envied our varied shapes, and it is just like them to claim their measly dead god is the same as our own Spider that Waits._

_Like the Spider that Waits, then, we should be patient. He was among the first to leave, these two centuries hence. Reason says he will be the first to return._

-  Kamal of Zanassu, Second Blade of the Apostolaeum, circa 1600 DR

 

**TARLYN**

_(Spider, sword, mace)_

_1 Mirtul_

When Tarlyn woke up nobody was staring at him or else studiously Not Staring at him, so he probably hadn't been screaming out loud this time. He finished kicking the blanket aside, slid off the bed, and shut himself into the hotel bathroom. Once he brushed his teeth, redid his braid, and confirmed that his neck had stayed intact another night, he left to find the other boys gathered around his bed. "Oh, _ew_ ," said one of them. "Look at it."

"We're doing that. Wow. It's huge."

"I can't believe this," said another one. "I can't believe we're doing this. Somebody just squish it."

"With what?"

"But it's so big. What if it, I don't know, bursts?"

"The ones in Chult are bigger," said Marteil Floshin. His back was to Tarlyn, his vestigial wings twitching. "They jump up and cover your face. And there're _really_ big ones down under, of course."

At this point Tarlyn drew close enough to see the spider clambering through the hilly terrain of the rumpled blanket – it was the only set of bedding nearly so disturbed, given that Tarlyn was the only one of the boys who had to sleep. It wasn't big enough to cover the face of any elf that wasn't embryonic, but it was big enough so that he could understand what the others were on about. It had to have shown up on _his_ bed – it couldn't have had the courtesy to at least discreetly traipse around on the ceiling. He had enough of them showing up in his nightmares.

Isaril Galanodel saw him and let out a slightly embarrassed cough. "Oh, morning. Feeling better?"

"Yes," said Tarlyn. "And it's not mine."

"Oh," said Marteil. "Too bad. I was going to ask how you got it through customs."

Tarlyn went to the desk and found the pad of paper next to the phone, stamped with the hotel logo. He tore off a sheet and headed back, breaching the line of bodies as Marteil expounded, to hold the paper in a ramp up from the blanket. Then everyone stopped talking and watched as the spider found the paper, dithered a moment, and climbed aboard. Once it was definitely on, Tarlyn lifted the paper with its passenger and made for the window.

"Oh well," he heard Marteil say from behind him, drawing closer – likely following from behind. "So much for trying out the Aglarond Banana Split. At least with a cherry. Argith's heroically preserved its innocence. Then again, how do we know it's innocent? It's hanging around in a hotel room, the little voyeur."

He unlatched the screen, sliding it back. As Tarlyn was reaching to do the same with the window itself, the spider finished its journey across the paper and clambered onto Tarlyn's hand. Behind him, someone let out a squawk. He swung the window open and held his hand out on the windowsill.

"Hope it doesn't bite. It'd be lousy to be sick _again_."

It was reluctant to go. Tarlyn gave his hand a shake as he heard Isaril say, "Don't worry. He has the best luck with spiders."

_Well, of course_ , he thought as it finally got onto the sill and he swung the windows to. _The token drow should have that._ He turned, clutching at a spot on his hand, and surveyed the new gathering near the window, "Ow. Ow," he deadpanned. "The ungrateful thing. Fuck you, Galanodel. Die." Even Isaril laughed.

"Hey," one of the girls called from outside the door, "Merytheal says meet us in the lobby at seven. We're going across the street for breakfast. Beat the rush."

"We'll do that," Isaril called back, in his role as the eldest. Meanwhile, Tarlyn retrieved his jacket from the closet, barely beating out the rush. He would have quite forgotten the spider if he didn't keep having the urge to feel at his throat.

***

Merytheal Starbrook's bladesong students took up several successive booths in the diner, which was otherwise empty but for two people seated at the opposite end of the room, picking at their food. Merytheal put down her ubiquitous canvas bag at the far booth, but she came up to Tarlyn before sitting down. "Feeling better?"

He nodded. It had started to let up on the plane out of Evermeet, nearly gone by the time they reached Waterdeep late that night (or early that morning), and he couldn't help but feel a bit guilty about the timing. _Convenient_ , he almost called it, though it hadn't been convenient for anyone.

"We'll be going again in a few years. Don't worry."

"Oh. Thank you."

"Relax." She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Don't push yourself, all right?"

"All right." Easy enough to say, especially to her. He was already going even crazier with not pushing himself; the main thing that had kept pushing him for tendays was out of his control.  

She smiled, patted him on the back, and went to her seat. Tarlyn stood there a second longer before sitting at the near booth and picking up one of the menus. Going out of his way to be closer to her wasn't worth it right now.

_He's the teacher's pet?_

_Yeah, him. At least she's tamed him a bit._

Marteil sat right next to him, as usual. "Us tokens have to stick together," he'd told Tarlyn once.

_The token drow too, huh?_ he'd asked Isaril the day he turned up as a prospective some four months ago.

_That's pretty accurate, actually. You think he fights dirty now, let me tell you he was even worse when he showed up._

_Huh. You think I can compete?_

_Of course. She thinks you're talented, I can tell, and –_

_No, no, I mean the dirty fighting. If I'm going to be the token fey'ri around here, I've got a reputation to maintain._

Isaril had started sputtering apologetically while Tarlyn, around the corner in the foyer, pretended to concentrate on his shoelaces for the benefit of any sudden entries. Maybe that was part of why most people thought he was a bit dim (though Tarlyn himself would admit he wasn't exactly the _clever_ sort, neither was he quite as stupid or deaf as some people seemed to think) – he spent so much time staring at his laces or other things that shouldn't require so much thought as he'd seem to lavish on them, waiting and listening.

_– and I have nothing against drow, either,_ Isaril concluded. _Nor do any of us. He's just… well…_

A waitress arrived and started taking drink orders. Lissy Bell, sitting next to Marteil, took long enough for Tarlyn to glance over the options and decide by the time it came to his turn. Marteil turned to him. "Feeling better?" Tarlyn shrugged. Marteil gave him a pat on the shoulder. Tarlyn stared at his hand. "Rotten luck, huh?"

"Guess so."

_Of course he's not some psychotic,_ Isaril had gone into another loop of apologies and reassurances. By that point, Tarlyn remembered, he'd moved on from his laces to buttoning and unbuttoning his coat. In the present time, he was starting to doubt that particular assertion. _It's not that bad. Merytheal wouldn't take on someone like that._

"Hey, better luck next time?"

He shrugged again. "Better be better."

Marteil laughed like a gnoll, then waved gaily, prompting Tarlyn to glance over; across the diner, the two at the other table had turned their heads, presumably at Marteil's laugh, and kept looking for a second before turning back. Something went _click_ at the sight of their faces, though he had no idea what that something might be.

He'd ended up in a fairly good seat to look at the pair without seeming to, and he took advantage of it, holding up the menu as an additional shield and making vague noises toward Marteil's chatter when appropriate. One was an elf, one a human, and he was sure he'd seen at least the elf before, somewhere. They both had dark hair; the elf's was a wild mop from which the tips of his ears poked, while the human's was curly to his shoulders. Both were tall – the human looked gaunt, his clothes not hanging quite right, while the elf seemed sturdier. Neither looked particularly cheerful. Tarlyn saw the human smile several times over the next few minutes, but there always seemed to be a twist of varying degrees. The elf didn't smile at all – Tarlyn thought that, too, seemed familiar.

Then the elf turned around halfway, toward their booths. It might have been taken for a casual glance around, as Tarlyn's stare might be taken for just the default position of his head, but when he laid eyes on Tarlyn again both of them seemed to know better. For no reason he could have explained, Tarlyn was suddenly furious. He imagined a red grin opening up across the jugular to compensate for the unsmiling face, thought he should be sick at that thought, and failed to be sick; he thought then that this failure should be disturbing him a good bit more.

"Wow," said Marteil. "You _really_ hated it, huh?"

"What? No. I… spaced out." Tarlyn looked away, hurriedly getting rid of the snarl that had found its way onto his face, and retraced the conversation topic. Some Drannor movie. "It was all right, except when they got stupid."

He concentrated on his explanation of the stupidity on both sides until the elf moved out of his mind's eye and the waitress came back with drinks, ready for orders.

"Oh yeah," said Marteil when she went off again. "Yeah, that _is_ pretty dumb… hey there," he yelled, waving again. Tarlyn looked back to the direction of the wave, and wished he hadn't. "Want to come over? Plenty of room."

There wasn't so much room, but they did come over after a minute of whispered discussion, leaving behind half-eaten meals. Tarlyn avoided looking at the elf.

"You from around here?" said Marteil. "We're from Rhyman, our own selves." He swept his arm in an arc around the table. "We were just over in Evermeet, picking up culture and that, and now we're here to pick up kitsch. You?"

"I'm from around here," said the human. He was looking at Tarlyn sidelong; at least Tarlyn wasn't getting any homicidal urges with him. "And as it happens, I sell kitsch. Part-time."

"Working on the Great Faerunian Novel?"

He gave Marteil another dry twist-smile. "More like the great Faerunian legal case. My cousins will probably beat me to it, but ah well. As for you?"

"Bladesingers in training." He clapped Tarlyn on the shoulder again. "Yup, hard to believe, isn't it?"

One of those twist-smiles again, and he turned to the elf. "Didn't you say you're a bladesinger?"

"Are you now?" Marteil grinned. "Media level yet? Gone to Evermeet yourself? Howsabout Drannor?" Simultaneously, Tarlyn wondered – _was_ he? That would explain the familiarity, though not Tarlyn's psychosis.

"No," said the elf. "Still a _tael_. I've had matches in Drannor, yes –" His lips twitched as if he were finally going to smile, but he glanced at Tarlyn again and it died. "But I live there, you see."

" _Drannor_?" Marteil leaned forward. "Hey, did you hear, Argith? Drannor!"

"I heard."

"Of course _we're_ not quite media level, either." Marteil gestured with a fork. "But give it time. Argith, now –" His hand rested on Tarlyn's shoulder once more, like a particularly large and persistent spider. "He's going to be the next Drizzt one of these days."

"No I'm not," said Tarlyn, stepping on Marteil's foot. "My eyes are all wrong, to start."

The human's low chuckle sounded odd amid the spatter of snickers. The elf remained impassive.

"Yes he is," said Marteil. "He can have a faithful spider companion. Too bad you put that one out, you might have bred it. Oh well, there's always Chult. And Galanodel can be Fflar, and I'll… lessee… switch over to sword dancing, how's that sound?"

"Sounds great," Lissy blurted, then blushed furiously.

"But are you sure that's, I don't know, _allowed_?" asked the other girl at the table, lifting her eyebrow as she smiled. "You can't exactly dance a changedance, this day and age."

"Well, that _is_ a conundrum…" Marteil frowned briefly before snapping back to his grin. "But I can be a wossname, can't I? An Assimilationist? Or is it Unitedarian these days? I'd get twice as many holidays, that's got to be nice."

"One of those holidays involves sitting very still all day in silent meditation," said Lissy.

"Well, if there's a TV on –"

"In total darkness."

"Well, damn."

"On Midwinter," Tarlyn put in, and wondered where he'd heard that.

"Oh, rub it in, why don't you?"

"Midwinter's a… special time of year," said the human, and laughed that hollow laugh again. "All those holy days."

***

As they began the circle-round for tips Marteil said, "That went well."

Tarlyn put in a few bills and glanced back at the door. The pair – the human Frost and the _tael_ Ilithaine – had gone a half hour ago. "What?"

"Sure, you didn't get his number, but what the hey. He's a cold fish anyway. So now you know that, and you don't have to waste your time pining."

He eyed the carton with his unfinished meal inside and was grateful he hadn't been eating at that moment. It wouldn't have been pretty. " _Pining_?"

"Well, yeah," said Marteil, grinning even wider. "Pining. You don't need to deny it, 's nothing to be ashamed of. He's a looker all right, even if he'sa fish. What, is your mom going to beat you with a belt and lock you in the basement for crushing on a faerie? That why you were so pissy all of a sudden?"

"I don't have one," said Tarlyn with rather more heat than (so he realized the next moment) he was justified in using. After all, he hadn't exactly handed Marteil a biography on joining. Isaril, he thought, had done that well enough.

"What, a basement…? Oh. _Oh_. Well, sorry. Forgot. Anyway, if your hypothetical mom didn't do it over _Merytheal_ … oh, sor- _ry._ " Marteil had only been with them four months, not even during the really obvious phase, and he'd already picked up on that.

_Well, you can't very well expect everyone to be as stupid as you._

Though Marteil certainly hadn't picked up on the thing with Ilithaine, at least not properly. Tarlyn certainly hadn't been doing any mental undressing or the like. _I'm the wrong one for that_ , Tarlyn thought, and realized a second later the undertones of their being a _right_ one. The _right_ one would be Marteil himself, obviously, except somehow he was certain Marteil wasn't who he'd been thinking of to start with. Which was stupid, crazy, because he couldn't even remember who that other person might be.

_Am I crazy?_

_Well, listen to yourself! People who wonder if they're crazy aren't, you know. There. Perfectly sane. If you keep wanting to slit the throats of random familiar-looking elves, you're just run-of-the-mill homicidal._

"You know," said Marteil, "whenever you do that? It looks like you think you might've forgot your head. Like you're checking for it. Crazy, I know."

Tarlyn took his fingers from his throat. "Does it?"

They left the diner in a press, exploding onto the sidewalk in a clamor of wondering where they'd go next in the city. Isaril wanted a tour of the reconstructed Blackstaff Tower, while Fela Nailo wanted to see the Craulnober moonblade, and Marteil loudly requested the "kitsch shop" where Frost worked. Tarlyn wasn't quite sure where they decided to go in the end, but in any case they were heading for it.

"Have you accepted the Spider Queen into your heart?"

Tarlyn nearly choked, though he wasn't sure on what.

The speaker jogged along their cluster with an armful of leaflets; her white hair was cut short, but she was otherwise dressed like an old-time drow priestess – and how had Tarlyn made that connection so quickly? It wasn't as though he knew much about other drow. It wasn't as though he was so familiar with those long black-and-purple gowns with embroidered spiders (always the damn spiders!) on their webs, to such an extent that seeing the one worn by the drow girl standing on a Waterdeep sidewalk in broad daylight had any right to send things into such intense vibration inside his head. She waved at Tarlyn. Tarlyn looked away.

"Say again?" said Marteil. "Wow. Honestly, I didn't know you still existed."

"Well, actually, we don't. Not so far as I know. But it got your attention, didn't it?" She held out the leaflets as Tarlyn dared to look back. Marteil took one. "I'm with the Living Skullport Society. We do historical reenactment and so on, and I couldn't help but notice –"

_Just an attention-getter. Reenactment. Come on. They don't exist anymore. You know that._ But his hand was at his throat again.


	5. Kiira Craulnober

_I suppose they had to know each other in Arvandor, when everything was shiny-happy and that. The myths don't say. But then the myths don't say much of anything about what my former god was up to in that time. It's as though he spent all his time conspiring with his mother and wearing his goody-good mask around everyone else. I suppose shiny happiness makes for boring myths, not to mention uncomfortable ones._

\- Seryzz of Erevan Ilesere, Mischiefmaker and once Darkmask, circa 1375 DR

 

**KIIRA**

_(Shooting star)_

"Okay," Kiira reported, shuffling through their notes again as he walked in a circle, "looks pretty much a match, what we remember. Even the _names_. Except we spelled one of them different."

Veldrin got down from the balance beam. They'd each written down their own version, on Veldrin's insistence, and Veldrin had been practicing his gymnastics while Kiira compared their notes. "Which one?"

"Ilithaine."

"Ilithaine," Veldrin repeated. "Rilashan Ilithaine?"

He checked. "Right."

"I remember. In… Ches, I think. Or Alturiak. He was on the Weave, selling his whole run of Rizzen Elfkin. Said he needed money fast. Madh got it at a steal and I saw the boxes when we were unloading. The return address was in Drannor."

"I guess your spelling's right, then…" Kiira blinked. The title character of Rizzen Elfkin was half drow, half human, which he supposed was part of the reason Madh liked it, and then there was the story around him. This Rilashan Ilithaine, if he'd really collected all ten years' worth so far of the comic, didn't sound like someone who would be as uptight about drow at large as the Rilashan Ilithaine in their mutual dream. He said as much.

"He probably isn't," said Veldrin. "Our subconscious minds are probably just being simultaneously unkind." He went for the bottle of water on a corner table. "Which still leaves the question of why they were simultaneous."

"Well, they weren't. Not exactly. I figure I had Reverie after you."

"We haven't been together that much lately, have we?"

"We haven't."

"I know _you_ read it." Veldrin took a drink. His hair seemed to have sprouted when neither of them was looking, and the new growth remained as green as his eyes had become. They'd made a sort of silent agreement not to bring up that bit of weirdness for now. "Sometimes. Maybe you saw his ad. Or he posts on a fanboard."

"Maybe. And I guess you might've run into him, Drannor and all. Ever hear of a Kren Auzkovyn? In Waterdeep, anywhere? Bump into him at a reunion maybe?"

"I'll look him up," said Veldrin. "Maybe I'll remember a page."

***

Together, they stared at the first page that came up on the Weave search. It was dated to late that morning, breaking news. There was a picture of the apartment building, but neither of them had seen the outside of the building in their dream and the sight of it didn't ring bells. There was a picture of the victim ("The victim _for once_ ," said an anonymous source, "thank Tyr"). "Gods," said Kiira. The Auzkovyn in the picture had a cocky look, a bit like Veldrin did sometimes. There was someone else's arm reaching around behind his back, probably his boyfriend's arm. He hadn't looked nearly so cocky when he was crouched on the bathroom floor trying to stop the bleeding. "Seldarine save us."

Veldrin scrolled down, muttering something that sounded like "They didn't save _him_. _"_ He wasn't looking so cocky either. His eyes were red again.

"The Second Snake," Kiira read. Quote from police officer Samular Moondown, who had a daughter in the hospital, you-can-read-the-social-interest-story-after-following-the-handy-link. Veldrin didn't follow it. "That's it. That's just it!"

"That _ass_ ," said Veldrin. "Over a damn table."

"But it wasn't the table," said Kiira, though he thought that business was a bit weird too. The dream-Ilithaine, however unfairly maligning his name, was _really_ uptight. Kiira wasn't aces at theology himself, but honestly, he didn't think Erevan Ilesere would really _care_ if some random drow happened to have a table with his symbol on. "It was… um. What did he say it was? There was the kid who got run over…" He pointed to the link. "But that was only one of them, right? The human?"

"The human. Yes. And the other one? Over being a _drow_." Veldrin jumped up and sent his chair spinning across the room, fetching up against the Reverie couch. "The fuck is this, the fourteenth century?"

"But _this_ Auzkovyn was an ass too," said Kiira. "Your stereotypical elven crime lord, really. 'The victim for once.'"

"But he didn't _know_ that when he _shot_ him!"

Kiira thought back on the interlude when their subject had locked himself in the bathroom, listening to the conversation outside as he retrieved a stashed gun. "… guess he didn't."

Kiira's nickname of "His Tallness" was not entirely facile; Veldrin stood an even six feet, which was fairly tall for most elves, taller than Kiira, and _really_ tall for a drow (well at least Mr. Auzkovyn, who'd been in no position to anticipate Veldrin's eventual height, had the luck to like high ceilings), and Kiira was particularly aware of this as Veldrin paced the space between the couch and the computer desk like a caged tiger.

"What now?" he asked at last. Veldrin would _have_ to say something to that; Veldrin loved to tell people what now.

"How should _I_ know?"

Yes, they were in a bad way.

But then Veldrin stopped pacing and took a deep breath. Kiira could almost hear him mentally count to ten before saying, "Now? Let's… fuck. Let's have lunch." He didn't seem to notice the wonderful opportunity to deliberately misunderstand it as an indecent proposal, and Kiira was relieved enough not to take advantage of it.

Veldrin's hair started falling out again on the way down, which effectively precluded going out anywhere. The Auzkovyns had a nice stock of groceries, though, and Veldrin set Kiira to chopping while he got his remaining hair out of the way, lined up the rest of the ingredients, and then attacked a can with such intensity that Kiira had to admire Veldrin's wisdom in not letting himself handle knives. In most other cases Kiira would have objected to being summarily assigned, but he too wasn't particularly keen on having Veldrin near sharp objects in his current state. Not that he thought Veldrin was a potential ax murderer or anything (not any more than the rest of the world, anyway) but accidents did happen.

He glanced over again a few minutes later to see Veldrin opening the windows. His hair was coming in again, red this time. Kiira was not nearly as surprised as he probably should have been. "Say," he said, returning his attention to the aggravating onion, "what're you going to tell your dad?"

"What?"

For a moment Kiira wondered if he'd slipped and asked about Veldrin's mom. "Y'know, our super prophetic dreams, and your hair… no, wait, it's not really _prophetic_ , is it? I mean, it'd already happened by the time we took Reverie, right? Or it was happening _while_ we were zonked. Either way, not very prophetic per se. Oh, but – "

"Mind the oven!"

At some point during his discourse Kiira had abandoned the haphazardly diced onion, and he was indeed waving the knife close to the oven door. He drew it away, and he _meant_ to go on chopping, really he did, but the wind in from the windows was so nice and it was really Veldrin's own fault for opening them. Lunch could wait. "But when you think about it, isn't this the spiffiest? It's like… like Rizzen Elfkin! No, wait, more like Wild Eights, I mean in Elfkin just about _everyone's_ magical, but us? Wow!"

"Kiira," said Veldrin.

"You really aren't thinking about this, are you? You're not considering the possibilities! I bet you we can do all kinds of things about this, I just bet you next we'll know about a race or something –"

"A lot of good that'll do us if we don't find out until the thing's already happened."

"There's something we can do with it. Something like this, there's got to be something."

"Like what? Call the police?"

Kiira paused a moment, remembering the other Auzkovyn bleeding and begging, and then he kept talking over it. "Yeah. Call the police." Maybe if he talked enough it would disappear underneath the words, spin away into fog like any other dream, even if he knew it was real and knew it more every minute. It had stayed a dream for him, or at least a movie. It hadn't been like he was really there watching it happen. He hadn't been shocked when he woke up, or particularly horrified – why would he have been? He'd seen the Graverending movies, and that was _really_ gory stuff. The retroactive shock and horror was sluggish in arriving, and he was just fine with that. "They've probably got a… a tip line or something. We can tell them some of those details that they're keeping secret from the public, and then they'll believe us. Except maybe over this Ilithaine, but we saw it. We saw it. That's got to mean something."

"Does it?"

He heard the warning in Veldrin's tone – warning for what, he wondered – and duly ignored it. "Yup." He stuck his head out the window for a moment and inhaled deeply. "Okay, right, this isn't much, but I bet you it's just for starters. You heard what one of them did in the dream. That boom-boom thing? Loud, wasn't it?"

"He stamped his foot."

Kiira stamped his own twice, to test. "Your Tallness, if that was just stomping he'd have _broken_ his foot. And that other thing he did, you know, 'you killed Caron Moondown?' Mind reading, or what? If _they_ get all the really spiffy things that'd be just sad."

Veldrin sighed from behind him. "Craulnober, now is not the _time_."

Then what was the time? "Hey, I wonder." There'd been some onion clinging to the blade, and some of it fell to the floor as he waved it. "Maybe _that's_ got something to do with it? Me being a Craulnober and you being, what, for all we know maybe you _are_ a long-lost prince of Evermeet –"

"Craulnober. Shut _up_!"

Maybe, in the absence of all else, Kiira _would_ have shut up then, and waited for Veldrin to be ready to talk again (with a few nudges from time to time, to be sure). He did stop talking, as it was, but it was only to yelp as the handle of the knife began to twist around in his hand. The blade distorted madly, and a second later the whole thing yanked itself out of his grip and shot out of the window, bits of onion and all. Kiira heard a _thunk_ outside, but not a scream of agony, so if it had killed someone at least they'd probably gone quickly.

He leaned out the window and yelled to the world at large, "I didn't do it!"

"Of course you didn't." Veldrin's voice was fairly level, but threatened with every syllable to become an answering yell. "You idiot."

In the apparent absence of any corpses below, Kiira turned around to find Veldrin staring at his own raised hand as though it had tried to strangle him. "Kiira," he said when he noticed he was being watched. All the indignation had gone out of him. His eyes were wide and green. His fingers flexed. "I…"

"I'll go get it." He knew it was the right thing to say when Veldrin smiled, albeit in a disturbingly faint way, and dropped into a chair.

***

He found the knife in a tree trunk and eased it out, letting out a whistle at the shape of it. Only the first inch of the blade had gone into the tree; the rest had curved into the beginnings of a corkscrew. The onion was nowhere to be found, and it wasn't missed.

When Veldrin saw it back in Kiira's hand, he finally seemed to think about what he'd tell his dad. "I'll tell him I threw it out the window," Kiira offered.

"And made it bend up like that? That's a good trick."

"Yup," said Kiira. "Trade secret, dontchaknow. Or if you let me keep this, I'll pop over to the Wau-Mart and get you another one. He won't have to know."

Veldrin shook his head. "It was from a place in Scornubel. Specialty." He opened Kiira's hand, took the knife, and indicated an engraving on the handle. "Unless you can get there and back before five…" Then Veldrin gave him a look as though recalculating the possibility of such a feat. Come to think of it, light-speed travelwould be a spiffy ability too.

"Maybe if you do it again? Opposite, like?"

"Mm. I'm going to have enough of a time without explaining stab marks in the wall."

Kiira went back to marveling at the blade. He wasn't sure, but he thought it should've snapped before getting that way. Maybe Veldrin had done something like superheat the metal, then twist it and cool it before it got outright melty. He took it back from Veldrin and held it closer for examination.

Veldrin's voice seemed rigidly focused on the task of not shaking. "Might I add that I'll also have enough of a time without you taking out your eye?"

Kiira wondered then if taking out his eye might give him some kind of powers like Labelas Enoreth's, but decided now wasn't the best time to theorize about that to Veldrin.

He moved the blade a bit further away from his eye (Veldrin still seemed anxious, but he didn't think that was all him), thoughts whirling. Maybe it was an invisible hand doing the bending – an invisible, uncuttable hand. Maybe that hand _had_ heated it up some, so that it wouldn't break. He wished he could ask Veldrin straight out, but Veldrin probably wouldn't tell if he knew, and if he didn't know he'd probably get red again if Kiira asked. And maybe it was one of those things that could be done but not explained, maybe some part of the mind just _reached_ and –

Kiira reached. Then he moved it even further away and watched the corkscrew begin to unwind. "Say, could you get me a ruler?"

Veldrin ran out of the kitchen. The ruler he ran back with was plastic, and didn't melt when Kiira put it next to the blade, so he figured it wasn't heat. With the ruler, he managed to get the dull edge of the blade in a fairly straight line. The sharp edge was more problematic, but Veldrin fetched another knife for comparison. Finally, Kiira held it up for approval. Veldrin nodded and returned his attention to the cans, and Kiira went back to chopping up, chatting about the first things to come to mind all the while. More like the second things, really – the first spot in his disorderly line was well-occupied, and remained so for an unprecedented duration.

***

"It wasn't him," Veldrin added, obviously sensing some nascent expression of his dad's.

Mr. Auzkovyn nodded tiredly, in that way he had. One of his fingers rubbed along the handle of his spoon.

"Don't forget about your eyes," said Kiira. He'd helped put out dinner, and he was the only one to eat it while Veldrin explained best as he could about the hair. They had to explain about at least the hair, Veldrin had said, and then he'd given Kiira a look almost as if he was _depending_ on him to blurt out the rest.

Veldrin stared at him. "What about my eyes?"

Kiira pointed. Mr. Auzkovyn nodded again, looking more sure of himself this time.

Veldrin stood, pushed his chair in, and said "Excuse me" before walking off in the direction of the bathroom. While he was gone, Mr. Auzkovyn tugged at the sleeves of his button-down shirt while Kiira cleaned his plate and got out the box of chocolate he'd picked up that afternoon for the occasion. Mr. Auzkovyn wasn't bookish, exactly, but he was computerish in a quiet and technical way. Kiira liked fiddling with computers himself, but in spite of this their attempts at conversation always seemed to wing past without contact. Tonight it was even worse. Kiira still made an effort, though he ended up having a much better conversation with the chocolate. He'd picked off a coconut and a nut brittle before Veldrin returned, sat down, and picked up where he'd left off.

Then Veldrin had finished. They both looked at Mr. Auzkovyn, who sighed. "The hair I don't know about, but the eyes… yes, I remember that." Veldrin nodded himself. "But that was years ago. I can't imagine why…"

"What?" Kiira leaned forward. "What was years ago?"

Mr. Auzkovyn tipped his head. "The pictures could explain better than – "

"No," said Veldrin.

His dad nodded at him. "Then no pictures."

Years ago… Veldrin had moved to High Forest (moved _back_ to High Forest) when he was fourteen, and Kiira was sure he would have remembered something as intriguing as the new kid having color-changing eyes. And after, he was sure he would have remembered _Veldrin_ having color-changing eyes. So _before_ that… "Are they baby pictures?" Veldrin glared at him, eyes red. Mr. Auzkovyn looked down at his untouched plate. "Come on, I showed you mine!"

"I never _wanted_ to see yours," said Veldrin.

"But you did. So pony up."

Veldrin's foot found Kiira's under the table and pressed out the ancient drow foot signs for _shut the fuck up_. "No."

"In any case," Mr. Auzkovyn hurriedly interjected, "His eyes used to, er, change. Dramatically. The optometrists didn't know what to make of it. He was the talk of the clan reunion. It's considered good luck. They settled down, though. When he was seven, eight."

"About the clan," Veldrin interjected with still greater speed, "do you remember a Kren Auzkovyn? In Waterdeep? Maybe he went by Second Snake?"

Another nod. "I don't believe he ever came to a reunion, but there was talk about a Kren at the one in five-ninety-five. A businessman." He hesitated. "Something of a shadowed one. They say he gave himself the surname, and that's not unheard of, but some said he had a nerve to induct himself and then ignore the rest of us. Pharaun suggested he was thinking historically."

"If he was really historical, he would've been a Craulnober," said Kiira. "And now he's history." The quip had jumped right out of him, and the other two at the table were staring. "Oh, we didn't mention that, did we? He's dead. We saw it."

***

His mom and dad listened and nodded and asked questions in the usual way, building up for Kiira revealing the joke, only this time he kept saying it wasn't one. They looked at each other then, and his dad actually bit his lip a bit, because this was clearly not the way things were Supposed To Go. Of course Kiira had never been much for settling into the ways things were Supposed To Go, but he thought he had better hold off on applying this insight until he got them to believe him on this.

He'd taken sheets of paper and practiced bending them without touching. He made some neat little Kozakuran cranes, a passel of cutout paper dolls, lengths of linked rings without benefit of tape. But he'd done all that before, and they kept watching for the trick. There was none, so they kept watching. "Call up Veldrin," he almost said, "and _he'll_ tell you the same," but he didn't think Veldrin would appreciate that.

Of course Veldrin's dad hadn't believed it at first, but Veldrin was there, Veldrin was the one to be believed, and Veldrin could show him the garbage can full of red and green hair. When they'd parted, Veldrin was back up to his room with the cap pulled down on his head and Veldrin's dad was starting to look up specialists.

Now he sprawled out on his bed. He remembered how doubtful his parents had been about getting him one at his age; they were usually pretty cool about these things, but they still found it hard to imagine why someone who wouldn't need a bed for sleeping wanting one for something besides the other obvious use. Kiira liked to take Reverie like other species took sleep – sprawled out like a starfish and moving frequently – for which purpose a couch was insufficient, as he ended up proving for two tendays straight before they gave in. Also, the mattress springs proved great for aerodynamics.

After a few straight bounces, clapping his hands against a ceiling that by now was looking rather smoky, Kiira flopped over and started running into fog right in the middle of a scissoring of his limbs.

The fog looked familiar now, as familiar as a bunch of fog _could_ look and maybe more so, so much that he could have sworn on the old moonblade that he could actually pick out the path he'd taken last night (well, this morning), could follow it past where he'd gotten before getting catapulted into the Waterdeep apartment. He settled into a jog, calling out to whoever (he was quite certain now she was a who, and a she) was at the other end.

And then there was a corpse. Kiira knew about corpses. Graverending was chock full of them, of course, animated and not, they did turn up in other movies, and he'd seen Kren Auzkovyn right before the latter became one. Of course Kren had been in one piece, but still. The one he saw now, he thought, was actually rather like the scene in Graverending Three when they chopped one of the Nameless's undead acolytes apart, right before her severed limbs started to scratch at the ground and her head, though separated from its vocal cords, began to sing. This one wasn't singing, but he could see what memory it could have been derived from.

He thought all this in a flash before his left foot hit the ground and then the surrounding fog lifted enough for him to see trees looming all around. The corpse, no longer floating in the mist, lay in dirt and bracken.  He closed in, dropped to one knee beside the battered-looking head, and peered down.

One green eye stared back at him. The other was covered in a welter of blood and other fluid from a slash that had also laid open the cheek down to bone. The hair looked a bit green as well; in its current blood-matted state it was hard to tell. The lips moved, and a gasping noise emerged.

Kiira yelled back and jumped up. When he finished yelling, it kept making that noise. Song, unlike with the Nameless's acolyte, was apparently beyond it.

"Veldrin!" Why he was suddenly so sure it was Veldrin he couldn't have logically said, given how much of a mess the face was in, but he knew the way he knew things in Reverie. "Seldarine save us, Veldrin!" _Gasp. Gasp_. "I'll get help. I'll go get help right now!" And then he was running again, by all rights he should have run into a tree or two but it was like they were parting before him. "Hello? Hey! I need you! It's Veldrin! Sweet Sehanine it's Veldrin, he's all chopped up –"

"He isn't."

He swung round to find her standing against a tree a ways back. At least that was the reasonable assumption. The fog was doubly thick around her; for all he knew she could be in a flamingo pose or else be levitating a few inches off the ground. Or be levitating _in_ a flamingo pose, for that matter. "He was all chopped up back there!" He realized he no longer knew just where Veldrin had been, and gestured in a random direction. "Or, wait, are you saying that wasn't him? That was, what, Driz Ulo with contacts and a dye job? I know he doesn't like me but that's a bit extreme –"

"It's ancient history."

"If it was historical wouldn't he be dead _now_? And a bit more skeletified, if it's ancient?"

"It's history," she said, "and it's not your Veldrin either."

"Look, uh, Miss…"

"Seniadra. Moonflower."

"Miss Moonflower – no, wait, is it Princess? Princess, this is _my_ Reverie and I'm pretty sure that's Veldrin. Has his eyes. And maybe his hair."

Her own eyes – at least what Kiira was pretty sure were her eyes – were a pale, glowing gray that nearly blended in with the fog. "Your pardon?"

"His eyes and hair," Kiira repeated. "'s lucky for the Auzkovyns. At least his eyes are, I don't know about the hair."

 "In that case," she said after a while, "matters need to be reconsidered somewhat. But still. He is not _your_ Veldrin."

 "Aah. I get it. He's Veldrin's dad? His spermatozoa donor, I mean?" That was what Veldrin, in certain moods, called his theoretical birth father – spermatozoa donor – with a sort of flip and twist to his voice. "Yeah, I get it. Genetics, right? But still. Chopped up."

"For him, it's long past. It's merely an image. An echo. There is nothing that can be done for him."

"Well'n, that takes a load off. Only, Princess  –"

Somewhere in the fog, he swore he could see her eyes widen slightly. "Ah."

"Ah what?"

"I thought it might be you."

"Thought it might be who?"

"I have been traveling Reverie," she said, "searching for those of the People like us. Like you."

"Are you? Well'n, you've come to the right place. I know _all_ about some of those people. There's Veldrin, of course, and there's Rilashan Ilithaine if that's really his name –"

Another widening. "Tell me about this Ilithaine."

"He's in Waterdeep, at least he was last morning. Touchy about drow. Let me think, let me think… oh yeah, seems he's good with a bow, except he was using a gun the time I saw him… what else did you want to hear? Mm, well, I think he's a greenie – _I'm_ part greenie," he headed off, "I've the right to say it. And he might have sold off his Rizzen Elfkin collection…"

"Using a gun, you said. Using it on what?"

"On Kren Auzkovyn."

"Kren Auzkovyn would be…?"

"Oh! Right! So Kren Auzkovyn wants to be like my great-something grandfather, right? Hey, did I tell you about him yet?"

***

 "But some people are just _touchy_ ," he was telling her some time later (when he tried to think how much time it kept slipping from him, and he wasn't all that interested in pursuit). "I mean, a table. Who'd be so strung up over a table?"

"This was a dream?"

"Yeah, but seeing as Veldrin had the same one and he _is_ dead now, I'm putting a bit more stock in it. This Kren, I mean. Not Veldrin."

"Wise of you." Her eyes closed briefly. "There will be a paper beside you when you leave Reverie. It will have my name and my email address."

"Oh, I gotcha. To prove this isn't a dream?"

"This is a dream."

"Well'n. Should I tell Veldrin to expect you?"

"I do not think he should expect me."

"That's too bad."

"Yes," she said, "isn't it just. Now I have something of a strange question for you. What do you know about this Veldrin's family?"

"Well, he's an Auzkovyn, right? So really his family's their whole clan, but… say," he said, stricken with inspiration, " _is_ Evermeet missing a prince?"

He thought she actually smiled at that. "Our princes are all accounted for."

"Oh. Right then. Okay, so just so you know, Veldrin's dad right now's his _dad_ , if you get my meaning. Does the dad thing and everything. The thing is, he's not the spermatozoa donor."

"I see. Go on."

"See, they found him in High Forest more'n fifty years ago. Midwinter night. He was a baby then. My mom kind of remembers that. She says probably Rillifane had a hand in his getting found before he got frostbite or anything, 'cause he wasn't dressed for the weather at all."

"Rillifane… I understand why she would think that."

"But don't tell Veldrin," said Kiira. "He doesn't need his ego pumped any more, thinking the _Seldarine's_ looking out for him on top of lucky eyeballs and everything." He wondered if Veldrin had ever come to that particular conclusion himself. "Anyhow. She says they were running adverts for whoever misplaced him, but whoever'd leave a kid out on Midwinter wasn't going to _say_ so."

"Naturally."

"Uh huh. So then Veldrin's dad picked him up and adopted him, and then they went off to Scornubel. Then they came back. The first time Veldrin told me about it…" he squinted, recollecting. "… he said maybe he'd been _meant_ for High Forest all along. You know?"

"I know. This accounts for a little mystery. Thank you."

"Hey, no problem, Your Highness."

"I may not be able to meet you in this way so soon again," she said. "Do take note of the email."

When he woke up, that was the first thing he did (once he found the paper, which had somehow worked its way under the bed). The second thing was to ring Veldrin. The moment he was put through he asked, "Are you okay? I mean, in one piece and everything?"

"You think my head's going to fall off after my hair?"

"Hey now, I thought I ought to check. Considering all the other things with dreams we've been having. Oh yeah, and I have the email for this princess." Veldrin blew out a sigh of what Kiira could guess was complete and utter disgust. "Really. And if you _do_ get any foggy dreams tell her I say hi."


	6. Nathshalee T'sarran

_No forgiveness, I know! No forgiveness but still I beg for it and perhaps this is why, perhaps because I forgot some matter of the faith before she will not permit me to succor in it again. My goddess is wise. My goddess is cruel._

_But I will give of myself. In atonement I will fulfill my deserved revenge, I will give that thing for which I was most praised, and that thing and the reason for its loss I vow to keep in memory as utterly as I forgot the very name of my goddess._

\- Drisinil the Faceless, 1378 DR

 

**NATHSHALEE**

_(Hand of silver rings)_

_2 Mirtul_

_Drisinil the_ _Brainless_. Nathshalee shut the book with a thump. _As if her pretty face commanded such a high price. As if acid baths would have solved anything._ And of course the Brainless didn't know it either. Otherwise she wouldn't have been carrying on so. She was no more help than the cultists of Orcus.

_With idiots like this it's no wonder –_

She pressed her hands to her face, feeling the metal of her rings against her cheekbones. _No_.

Madness, madness, _madness_ to go grubbing in the libraries of the surface when the ones below turned up nothing. She'd thought that the collection on cults might contain one undefaced text, and she'd thought wrong. At first she'd thought the compiled writings of the Brainless sitting misplaced among the Orcus-praising dribble were a windfall, given that she hadn't seen any writings of hers in Sshamath, but then she realized that the librarians of Sshamath were clever that way.

"Ma'am?"

Nathshalee turned to the assistant librarian, who stood fiddling with his hands in the doorway of the reading room. "Yes?"

He looked abashed and she thought she could see heat gather in the somewhat-blunted points of his ears. She liked that. "Er, it's time again."

"Oh." She stood, shoving her paltry notes into her bookbag, and pushed in her chair. He looked about to ask her again if she had any luck today, but apparently grasped from her expression that she hadn't. Instead he said "If I can be any help –"

"Can you travel in time?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, there's a temple of Labelas Enoreth just a block off, I could show you –"

She laughed and he jumped a bit. "That's quite all right, you've been plenty of help already." She searched for the appropriate phrase. "Good night."

What she'd said was truer than he could know, she thought as she waited at the bus stop. The name had been so thoroughly erased that perhaps the only resort would be flinging herself into an age before its erasure. Labelas Enoreth would be loath to help her, unless perhaps he thought he would be rid of her forever in the process. And of course, these days his priests would be useless, unless Nathshalee came upon one like her.

It was five past one by the time the bus reached her stop. Even this late a pair had taken it into their heads to go busking near to the stop, one with a flute and the other singing some awful ditty about Thayvian roses. The sound maddened her even more than it would have normally, and she wasn't sure if she managed to make the overturned cashbox look altogether an accident. There was a miserable little all-hours coffee shop nearby, and she bought coffee in a foam cup and a meal packed neatly in foam boxes which she took on the block's walk to the hotel.  Up in her room, she laid it out with the intention of eating eventually. While she was at it, she threw out the half-full coffee she'd bought last night.

They'd used to call her Skeleton for the appearance which partly resulted from her eating habits. It was truer than they knew, she knew that now, but still Nathshalee resented them for it. Somehow someone years ago had taken it into their head to start calling her Lee-Lee and she'd borne the limpet of a nickname for a half a century, but now it sounded right somehow, on the right track, though when she tried to follow that track all it did was circle round. And her own true name sounded wrong now, like her parents had botched it when they adopted her; she too was becoming nameless.

The bed was a double and she'd loaded it up with her books and her papers; it afforded her far more space than the rickety desk. She'd moved the pillows to the couch in preparation for her Reverie, and the way the bed was there wasn't much loss in the way of softness. She kept her jewelry and more costly tools in a special box with both a padlock and traced glyphs in silver paint. She'd painted the first glyphs some sixteen-seventeen-eighteen years ago, when she first felt the Weave begin to stir, and since then she'd been constantly improving. Her crowning glory was a linked pair of symbols a year old, drawn on a stiff bit of card she kept just under the lid, to confront anyone who opened it. They wouldn't harm Nathshalee herself, but they were meant to strike others dead or else send them screaming in a panic. She hadn't found any bodies of would-be thieves yet, but as she opened the box and ran her fingers over the lines she could still feel their power.

As she turned the card over and began to sort through, she recalled her first efforts at procuring components. Bone and flesh were simple enough but gemstones were more of a problem. At one point she'd found herself in an "arcane" shop run by delusionals and patronized by rich delusionals, and the memory that particularly stood out was how they hadn't taken the price tag off one of the majestic glass candleholders flanking an old woman in the back who'd offered to read her fortune.

The woman had been old, true, but surely not so old that she could have once been a true wizard or priestess. What power she might have gained with the changes in the Weave would have been sheer accident, learned through a child's fumbling, and never enough to read Nathshalee's destiny. If she'd asked today Nathshalee would have called her all manner of things for the presumption (though if she was honest with herself she really couldn't have expected such a powerless crone to _know_ ) but at the time Nathshalee had told her she was saving money for her "necessary" purchases.

Nathshalee wouldn't have called herself rich in anything material, but she'd worked enough part-time and ate little enough to afford a sample of powders and onyx spheres and such, and that saw her through until her awakening and heightening gifts made them either redundant or reusable. Now she drew out a jacinth and a fragment of silver, which she'd been using for two years with an increasingly successful modification of the astral projection described in the old books of Sshamath.

She eyed the new cup of coffee briefly but decided it wouldn't be a good idea to drink before such a lengthy procedure. It wasn't as though heat mattered so much to her. She arranged herself on the couch in the position that minimized limb sleep, folded one hand around the jacinth and silver, and gestured with the other as she called out. One advantage of this kind of hotel was that even if there were complaints the management hardly ever followed up on them. If they did, she had already decided to tell them she planned on going into opera.

When she first began using the spell such distracting thoughts would have necessitated starting over, but now she kicked off without exclusive concentration, spiraling from her body buoyed by the dark. She saw everything as though through the fine black mesh of a veil, and then she saw nothing.

Once landed she kept still awhile, closed her eyes, to let her brain resettle in her head (technically of course she was away from head and brain and eyes, but they still felt like they were there). The undercurrent remained, seething and bubbling underneath the phantasmal blood in her phantasmal veins. There was a strange familiarity about it sometimes, a synchronicity, and she hadn't been sure whether that improved or worsened the feeling. It had frightened her, early on. Once she had taken one of her experiments and wandered down a side street in Sshamath and found a child to ask _Hey, would you like to see something?_

He'd been wary, bare feet scuffing at the cobblestones, looking at her sideways and up through his tumble of hair, but Nathshalee was called Skeleton and then as now did not look as though she could outwrestle a spider. So he leaned in – _what_? and Nathshalee opened her hand and he screamed.

_What?_ She'd asked back, though her heart was doing a flip-flop. _It's only a rat._

_It's bones! It's bones it's moving and –_ And the rat sat up more, leaned toward the child's face, and he turned and ran still screaming and for one _truly_ crazy moment Nathshalee could have kissed her little certificate of sanity.

It whispered with each Reverie and came forth in a chilling tide each time she exercised her gifts. It didn't tell her fortune, what would _be._ It whispered of what _was_ , what had been. A heritage that remained but half-claimed, sealed away long ago by a group of thoughtless mages.

"Help me, help me."

She opened her eyes. A pair of hands grasped at hers. They were the hands of another drow, adorned with rings, the fingernails painted off-white. The rings weren't nearly as high quality as Nathshalee's; half of them were probably from candy machines and she was willing to bet none were genuine silver. She looked along them to fishnet-encased arms and then to the body they were attached to, shorter than hers (though many drow bodies were shorter than hers; it had been a bit of a surprise when she stepped from the Underrail station to have to start looking up), loosely swathed in blacks of various textures. Her eye followed one bit of black up to where it spread out and draped down into a loose hood, framing a face containing wide, tear-filled eyes and a mouth that continued to move. "Help me. I think he killed me."

Nathshalee freed her hands with a jerk. These were quick results. Usually she began her trances with a susurrus of dry whispers, twining ectoplasm forms fluid as slimeservants, and it took concentration to single out a voice, further to single out the origin of the voice. They rarely had anything interesting to say but she kept at it. Now here was this one grabbing at Nathshalee's hands again, her hands with the painted nails and candy-machine rings. Without speaking Nathshalee pulled off the hood and yes _there_ was the gray skullcap with bits of white poking out from underneath and she just _wore_ it all, the stupid girl, certainly no yathrinshee, probably not more than fifty, thinking she was being so very daring and trendy and cultural, and didn't _know_ any of it.

Of course no one had known it for even longer than they didn't know it of the rest of the gods.

"What is her name?" she asked slow, as if it was something the girl ought to know, and felt _it_ rise up cold and underline the words.

The girl cringed; evidently some of whatever book she'd skimmed or information cards attached to the paraphernalia she bought had sunk in enough for her to recognize Nathshalee and what truly guided her. "Nobody knows anymore! Please –"

_Nobody knows. Nobody knows._

Nathshalee grabbed her by the shoulders. "So 'he' killed you. Tell me about it. Tell me why I should care."

"Got me in the heart," she whispered. "'Least I think it was the heart. Kind of stupid to go so quick otherwise. It was an arrow. I saw the feathers on the end."

_Arrow. Black arrow. Broken arrow._

She didn't realize she was shaking the girl until she heard the renewed whimpering. She stopped and lowered her voice. "Tell me."

"I was just walking home –"

"Where is home?"

"Rose Street. Waterdeep." A surfacer then. Even more out of tune. "I was walking and I thought I heard something and he _shot_ me! I'm not mixed up in any of that, I heard some big fish got shot but I thought it was with a gun and I didn't know him _anyway_ –"

"Know who, the fish or the one who shot you?"

"Either of them!"

"What did you see of the one who shot you?"

"Umm. Dark hair. And. Um."

Nathshalee listened to the other semi-participant in the conversation. "Was he an elf?"

"Yes! He was."

"And tell me this – did he smile at all?"

"Well I don't think so but I only saw him for a _second_ and –"

"Stop _crying_ already! You just wait here. I'll see to you later."

***

" _Shevarash you're_ _dead!_ "

Even as Nathshalee saw the hotel room snap back into place around her, her throat ached with the force of her waking scream. Her head was awash with still greater fury at the reminder that Shevarash _had_ a proper name to be screamed, then with utter and mercifully brief confusion as to who Shevarash was, quickly remedied by the arrival of her memories from her trance – her conversation with the surface drow, followed by the vision that caught her on the way back. The vision had been largely a repeat of what she'd already been told – but she'd seen the elf with the bow, and now she knew.

She began to pack, listening for anyone at the door. The search for the true name of the origin of her gifts could be delayed until she'd exacted proper revenge. Even without the name she had enough power for this mission. The surface girl was pathetic but she still wore the regalia of the faith and Nathshalee couldn't let such an affront pass. So she was off to Waterdeep, and Shevarash's servant was a corpse that drew breath. 


	7. Larissa Fariha, née Vesper

_The trouble with earlier writings on the subject is their blanket treatment of drow. Drow, as with other folk, are not a modron collective. Even when we concentrate on the drow of the surface, and further still on the worshippers of the Masked Lady, the experience of carrying on a relationship – long-term or nightlong – with a true Assimilationist is quite different from the experience with an old-guard Eilistraeen or, Sharess forbid, a Vhaeraunite._

_(One of my esteemed colleagues insists it is possible to have a pleasurable, consensual, attempted-murder-free and relatively deception-free relationship with this last. His view on the subject will be forthcoming in a few pages, once I have covered less hazardous prospects)_

\- Excerpt from _The Sensate's Guide to Racial Relations_ , authored by a committee of Sharessin under pseudonyms, 1569 DR

 

**LARISSA**

_(Red kiss, cat's head)_

This bathroom was decked out with marble tile and the third-biggest home tub she had ever seen. If there was a similarly-sized cabinet behind the wide mirror set over the counter Larissa could have gone to bed in it with room for a partner. Instead, after dressing and taking her nara pill, she used it to reexamine the slit pupil of each eye. Once she'd determined there were no changes, she put on some makeup and jewelry, finishing with her sunglasses. Again she promised herself she'd see an eye doctor. Again she declined to set a deadline for it.

He was sitting on the bed when she came out. She lifted a hand, noticing the sunrise now in full swing out the window. "So, good morning."

"Morning." He stood, taking in her state of dress. "Going already?"

"Oh, I didn't want to _impose_ or anything."

"Oh – you're not. Really."

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "You're a dear. But you see I didn't pack my toothbrush."

He half-smiled. "Do you ever?"

"Well, no."

"So, um, I was wondering." She wondered if the sunlight was draining his confidence. He'd had much more bravado when he was dancing in the bar last night (very early this morning?). "Er. Your number?"

"Oh, sure. Pen?"

There was a pen on the nightstand, atop a small page-a-day calendar. He handed it over, and after a slightly awkward pause gave her the calendar as well, interrupting her impulse to write it on his skin in lieu of other available surfaces. She scrawled across the page for the first of Mirtul, added _Larissa Fariha_ in case he needed a reminder, then tore it off to reveal the current day and returned the lot. She was surprised at first when he started writing on the second of Mirtul, but she understood by the time he handed over his own number. "So, uh, see you later?"

Larissa shrugged, slipping the page into her purse. "Sure." No deadlines there, either.

***

"Vesper," said Sannara, jabbing a finger at her. Sannara had started calling her by her last name years ago, before she'd had it changed, preferring the sound of it to her first name, and Larissa had never quite figured out how to ask her to stop or if she even really wanted it to stop. "See a doctor." Larissa giggled. "Yeah, yeah. Really, if I didn't say _something_ about it and you went blind, it'd haunt me the rest of my life – and that's more than three times as long as _you'd_ be blind, so I've got a bit of an interest in this."

"Actually," said Larissa, flopping back on the couch, "they've never been better. Speaking of blind, up for Blind Run?"

Sannara stared at her another moment before laughing. The very first time Larissa had been challenged to Blind Run she'd been six, hadn't learned about comparative anatomy, and couldn't figure out why Tylek the kobold always seemed to make it across the cluttered room first. When she figured it out and decided to challenge others in turn, she'd had an advantage over the purely human kids. A while after she first met Sannara it had come up in conversation, and Sannara had confessed to pulling the same trick when she was a kid. She'd been foiled when, instead of turning off the lights, someone proposed blindfolds.

"Anyhow." Larissa stretched into a familiar position. "How about your message?"

"Oh yeah, the message! See, yesterday I was out leafleting for Living Skullport, and I found this whole _class_ full of _bladesingers_ , from down south. Guess who was in with them?"

She rounded her mouth. "Oh! Not – um –" Though she was familiar with the concept of bladesingers, a suitably prominent one for a mock guess eluded her. She decided to go for straight-out absurd. "– not Dare!"

"Oh no," said Sannara, "not Dare. He's still going in for cloak-and-dagger. Oh yeah, and he's got your dress ready. Forgot to tell you. Anyhow. It was a mixed bunch. Teacher trying to balance maybe. Ethnic representation and that. They'd a couple of halfers, and a fey'ri, and –" Larissa could swear she managed to affect a genuine twinkle in the red of her eye. "–  a drow."

"Oh! You didn't get in-character, did you?"

"Only a little bit." She waved an arm above her head. "He jumped about _yea_ high."

"He did _not_."

"All right, he didn't, but still. Looked like he'd come face-to-eyeball with a yoch."

Larissa recalled what she'd absorbed of drow slang and smiled, trying to look sly as she picked at her fingernails. "You're saying he didn't?"

Sannara guffawed. "Well, all right, maybe he did, but me, I'm a stealth-yoch. Clean off the wax drippings and everything. Got an undercover torrid affair with an Assimilationist."

"Now what did you just say about 'torrid?'"

Dare Vrinn stood in the doorway to the bedroom, one arm holding a spill of dark fabric and the other keeping a hanger with a familiar deep red dress aloft. "Come on," he continued. "Who's your lucky parzo? Or are you saying _we're_ torrid? What dictionary're you using there, Sannara?"

Sannara jumped up from her chair, hurrying over. "Did you do for the pwaf, then?"

"The _piwafwi_ ," he announced, holding out his arms, "has been adjusted."

Shimmering black and deep purple cascaded into Sannara's grip, which she readjusted as she lifted it and gravity went about unfolding.  It resolved into a hooded mantle shot through with threads that glittered in the sunlight from the windows. She let out a delighted cry. "Be right back!"

As she hurried out, Dare held his other project a bit higher. "So how's this?"

Larissa stepped forward to claim it. "It's great." After Sannara invited her to the Living Skullport party, the three of them had gone through books of period costume for a suitably historical dress. Dare's reproduction wasn't straight out of the illustration, but it had everything about it Larissa had admired. "Okay, how much?"

His eyes went wide. "Are you purple? I can't _sell_ it."

"You can if you used real velvet for this thing. And Sune, is that – must have set you back _months_ , all of this, plus the other stuff you would've had to turn down –"

"I'm very efficient," said Dare, "and not in _that_ much demand. Least I can do for Sannara's friend, yeah?"

"Yeah," she said, reluctant to further question this windfall in case he did decide to charge. "Sure. If you like. Guess I'd better put this on. Have a panker with Sannara while I'm at it."

Dare's eyes went wide again for an instant, but it had been a while since the period where Sannara was the only connection between them and he got it in the next instant. "Why, you never said _you_ were one of us!"

Larissa took the dress. "You never asked."

"Say, seriously now, are you _really_? You never did mention."

It was a good question. The typical image of an Assimilationist was a drow, as was Dare, but Larissa knew they might also be "faerie" elves and half-elves like herself. And she never _had_ mentioned, she didn't think. "Sorry, no. Never really thought about that. And now I really need to go –"

Sannara emerged from the bedroom, wearing everything but the scourge and still adjusting the clasp on the mantle.

"Oh no," said Dare. "Too late."

"Too late for _what?_ " Sannara crossed her arms, smiling. "Don't tell me you've been having a panker on the couch with Vesper or else I'll show you _real_ yoch, you hear me?" She snatched at the mantle as it threatened to slip off her shoulders.

"All right," said Larissa. "We won't tell you about our panker on the couch."

She was having more success with the clasp now. "Say, Dare, why don't you put on yours too? Finish the set?"

Dare assented, and minutes later they reassembled in the living room. Sannara had retrieved her scourge; in contrast to her clothes, the openmouthed snakes were blatantly plastic, though of course she didn't have the money to shell out on robotic snakes or the like. She'd compensated by painting intricate runes on the shiny black handle that she'd clamped over their tails. The other main challenges to verisimilitude were her short hair and her easy expression. She gestured at Larissa and said, as she often did, "Wish we could swap off for the night."

Larissa put a hand under her hair, as long and black as Sannara's was short and white, and gave it a flip. "And let you have all the fun with it while I'm stuck with all the care? I don't think so." Larissa didn't carry any weapons, decorative or otherwise; they weren't in particular keeping with her chosen persona and she was pretty sure her unarmed self-defense and the can of pepper spray in her purse would be up to snuff.

Dare wore a sword with a black-edged blade, blunt but genuine metal, which he belted at his waist; he kept moving his black cloak to alternately reveal and conceal it, while his other hand had a pair of half-masks. He waved them. "Which one do you think?"

"Upper," said Larissa.

"Yeah, upper," said Sannara. "It's got more historical precedent and won't get in the way of the soup. Or the kissing."

"Maybe that's the point," said Dare. "Getting in the way. No spider kissing for _this_ fellow."

"Oh?" Sannara folded her arms again, thrusting herself forward to display the spiders on her dress (which Larissa had seen Dare embroider by hand). "Are you _sure_ about that?"

"How about _you_ wear the upper this time?" Dare peeled the mask with eyeholes off from its rectangular counterpart and flapped the former at Sannara. "About time you admit it."

"Admit what?"

Larissa reseated herself on the couch and leaned back, idly going through her hair with her fingers.

"Honestly, isn't it time we cut the dramatic tension and outed you already? I think we've had enough of the 'when are they going to stab each other already,' don't you?"

"Hey. It's _Skullport_. Who says there's got to be stabbing?"

"Half the Society maybe?"

"Since when did you give a shit about the Society?"

"I don't know, since I _joined_ it?" Almost ready to jump in, Larissa recognized that the light touch remained.

"Fine," said Sannara, waving her scourge. "Tell them I'm undercover if they ask again."

Larissa piped up "And _are_ you?"

Sannara drew herself up to her full five feet and rimed her voice with easily-melted frost. "Now what manner of foolish question is that? The day will draw nigh when I slice out his heart, yes indeed."

Dare shrugged, staying out of character. "Just don't drop it."

Sannara grabbed him, pulled him to her, and only broke the kiss to say, "How's that for torrid, parzo?"

"So about those bladesingers," said Larissa. "Did you leaflet them? Did they say yes?"

"Yes and yes."

Dare finally drew back somewhat and started to tie on the upper half-mask. "Isn't it a bit cruel asking them to dredge up costumes with this notice?"

"Two words," said Sannara. "Elven formalwear. Enough out of fashion to pass for costumes."

Larissa giggled. "Planning to set up duels or what?"

"A _duel_?" She faked her scandal as she faked her frost. "Now why would you say that of little old me? It's a party! Can't very well have a proper party when there's blood on the floor."

***

After that, with the sun firmly established in the sky, she dropped in on Ralien and Dareyne, petted their cats, showed off her eyes, collected more admonitions to see a doctor, called up a few more of her friends, and picked up what she was pretty sure comprised a whole breakfast along the way. On the street and the bus a few people looked askance; from experience she knew they'd be looking at her short dress from last night and her still-wild hair (or maybe today some of them saw through the sunglasses). She tossed her hair, in between dragging her fingers through it some more, and smiled back at them until they looked away.

Her eyes were the same in her own bathroom, though why would they have changed back? Then again, why would they have changed to begin with?

She rubbed at them, standing before her own mirror with her folded sunglasses on the counter next to the sink. In the mirror she could see Dare's dress hung up on the door behind her, ready to wear. She absently ran the cold water and splashed some on, followed by the warm, as if the slit pupils in what now seemed like immense green expanses were painted on and would just wash off, showing proper ones inexplicably hidden behind them. She remembered trying that before and wasn't particularly sorry when it didn't work again.

Other people would be unnerved, she was sure, but she wasn't those people – though she still wore the sunglasses in deference to them. Larissa imagined what it would be like to forget the sunglasses. Would theoretical secret organizations with labs in the middle of nowhere and eyes across Faerun really care about one girl whose eyes were a bit off?


	8. Theris

_This morning I shared some Maztican coffee with Jorse Amblebrook, who attempted with his usual charisma to inveigle me into furthering the aims of the Lady of Loss. He then took his leave out the back of the inn while I lunched with Sir Vardin of the Knights of Samular, who attempted to inveigle me with considerably less subtlety – which, given that he knows me far less than Jorse, is perhaps understandable. Each gave me a great deal of advice, some of which I might even follow._

\- Excerpt from the journals of Ranselm of Hoar, Claw of Revenge, 1404 DR

 

**THERIS**

_(Gloved hand, two-faced coin)_

"Have you seen Ilithaine?"

Grace Tanthul looked up. "Good morning."

Theris glanced at the clock. Technically it _was_ still morning. "Good morning." Pause. "Have you?"

"Not since last night." She continued to mop the dining hall floor. "Did you want to see him?"

"Yes." Theris joined her with the mopping.

"I did that half," she said after a minute. Her dark hair, as usual, had worked out of the net and now draped her face.

Theris moved to the other half of the room. "They found a body just north of here."

"Ah. Another one."

"Yes. Another drow. They said it was an arrow."

"An arrow."

"Yes."

"If I see him, I'll be sure to tell him."

"Thank you."

More silence. Theris swabbed at the linoleum and thought of last night – the pastry shop, Tanthul toying with her coffee and never lowering her wide hood, while Ilithaine was knocking his back like he meant to get drunk and like each tiny cupful contained what Auzkovyn drank before dying. Each of them bought a pastry and none of them took more than a nibble.

Tanthul said, "And how is Miss Moondown?"

He heard the clomping stride largely unique to Lietson and Lietson's heavy shoes. "She's doing better." If only the act of retribution had released some sort of ephemeral life-essence that would promptly rebound to Caron in the hospital. But Auzkovyn's life had sputtered out with no benefit to her besides the assurance that he'd not go after her or her family again. Sam Moondown, on the phone, hadn't seemed too pleased about the death when there was still the life to worry about, and Theris knew his own disappointment at that was unfounded. Theris could take revenge on Auzkovyn but he couldn't fix Caron, at least not now.

"Tanthul?" It was Lietson. Theris didn't look up. "It's Ackey again. She wants you." She left with as little sound as always, and as always Lietson made plenty of noise fumbling with her deserted cleaning equipment before he came up beside Theris. "Afternoon."

"Afternoon."

"Heard about the shooting, yeah?"

"Which one?"

"Okay, right, so there was this sharran caught a fucking _arrow_ this morning –"

"Heard of it."

"Okay then, and there was Snake Auzkovyn, you've heard of that one for sure."

"Yes."

"I hear the boyfriend's climbing the walls. Putting out rewards and that."

"Is he?"

"You know what I think?" Lietson lowered his voice. "I think the boyfriend offed him."

"And what makes you think that?"

"You know. They're that sort, right? All shifty and stuff. And let's say…"

Theris listened, cleaned, and imagined Lietson telling some intrepid author with notepad in hand, _Well he always did seem a bit weird. Quiet. Shifty and stuff. Bit of a sick sense of humor. Read crime books all the time, kinda like the ones you write. Maybe he was getting ideas or something. Doing research. You know?_

"I'll go get a bed ready," said Theris. For Ackey, it didn't need to be said. Ready for when Tanthul had talked her down and Ackey could be shown in, her shuffle placid and her hands dangling at her sides.

"Yeah, sure, you do that. Say, you know those sacks of Tanthul's? Think she keeps Lady in the pockets?"

Theris said nothing as he walked away. Tanthul had far more effective pathways to oblivion than the powder they called Lady Loss on the street.

***

He got the message when he stopped off at his apartment for lunch before heading to Harbor Kitsch for his afternoon shift (not everything in the shop fit that definition, but his stepfather Ander had always spoken of honesty in business with a wink). Bateslan had conscientiously delineated his schedule, so after finishing out his commitment and turning command of the register over to Garenka Bluefist he used the phone in the back. "I'm looking for Bateslan Thardeyn? It's Theris Frost. His cousin."

"Oh, sure. Bate!" the roommate yelled. "Bate! Phone!"

Theris seated himself, holding the phone to his ear. He didn't remember quite what his cousin sounded like, but the next voice on the line did sound like the vaguely familiar one in the message. "Yes?"

"You asked me to call back."

"I did. Is it enough notice? I may be able to push back –"

"Yes. Plenty of notice. But still a surprise."

"To no one more than me," said Bateslan – or was it Bateslan? The tone of actual surprise coming through wasn't like what Theris did remember of him at all. "But things have come up. Could your shelter use help? I wouldn't want to inconvenience you for nothing."

"It could always use a bit more."

"Good."

"Can you find your way?"

"I can." A hesitation. "On second thought –"

Granted, Theris didn't know his Thardeyn cousins that well. They'd eventually developed a common ambition, and he'd often played with them or else was overseen by the older ones before his parents separated (he remembered Bateslan before the various operations worked, Bateslan with the punch-code textbooks which he read with his left hand). Afterward, though, the visits on both his part and theirs had plummeted. Still, Bateslan not only having second thoughts about anything but actually _admitting_ it… There could certainly be more than one Bateslan Thardeyn in the world, perhaps another one with a cousin called Theris, and Theris half-seriously considered the possibility that he'd been caught up in some comedy of errors.

"– if I call once my plane lands?"

"No problem."

"I'm very sorry about this." And maybe he was.

"There's no need to be sorry." _Not everyone's as anal as you_ – but Theris thought the edge on what he'd said was already excessive.

***

When he looked through the peephole that evening Ilithaine was on the other side of the door. A backpack hung with one of the straps halfway off Ilithaine's shoulder. Ilithaine carried a bottle in one hand, with the other wrapped around the handle of a long suitcase resting by his feet; Theris's mind promptly jumped to _rifle case_ and then jumped to _what is he going to do, ask permission to set up on the roof and snipe at passerby?_ Though that was probably excessive.

Then he thought, _not a rifle case. A bow case._ Then he opened the door.

"I brought something," Ilithaine stated the obvious, holding up the bottle. "It's not Venkyr but I thought it might do."

A moment passed during which Theris was suddenly and completely convinced that Ilithaine meant to shoot him (through the case, magically pulling the trigger or letting fly the arrow?) and then pour him a drink. He was all set to tell him that particular gesture would be entirely missing the point of Theris's use of it with Auzkovyn. Then sanity, what was left of it, prevailed. "You didn't spend too much on it, did you?" He was already halfway going for where he kept his cash.

"Oh no. Waukeen-Mart. I just thought if I was going to come over... you know…"

"I don't," said Theris. "Anyway, come in."

He came in and stood clutching the bottle, as Theris closed and bolted the door. "She said you wanted to talk to me?"

"I did. Nothing else?"

"No."

"I wanted to talk about a girl," said Theris, turning to face him. "On the corner of Palace and Toal." He knew those streets fairly well. Palace was a decidedly optimistic name, while Toal was a good bit more accurate assuming the toal in question wasn't one of those antique coins that could buy the whole of its namesake street. "They said she wore black and had rings on all her fingers but the thumb. You can put that on the counter. Over there."

Ilithaine did so. "I… I did see girls like that," he said. "There were a lot of them where I went. And the rings. The streets – I don't remember the streets."

They'd parted ways outside the little shop. Ilithaine had said he had a hotel room, rejected offers of a ride or bus money, and walked off in – yes, it would have been in the right general direction. "See if you remember this. She had white hair. Red eyes. Black skin. An arrow in her chest."

If Ilithaine had still been holding the bottle Theris guessed he would have dropped it at that point. "I. What?"

"They found her this morning."

Ilithaine's hands opened and closed. Theris gestured to the stuffed chair and Ilithaine looked at it as if it were about to eat him. "I don't – I –"

"Sit down," said Theris at last, quoting some two decades' worth of concerned relatives. "You look like you're going to fall apart."

After a moment, Ilithaine started to move, swinging the backpack the rest of the way off, while Theris went for the drawers beneath the kitchen counter, locating the small glasses in the back of the drawer that he usually used to hold measured herbs and spices when he cooked. Theris turned back after popping off the bottlecap to see Ilithaine collapsed in the chair, limbs askew, like a dropped rag doll. When Theris brought over one of the filled glasses his eyes went wide for a moment before he reached out for it.

Theris carried over one of his kitchen chairs, puzzled briefly over how far away to put it, decided to highball the distance, and sat down after retrieving the second glass. Meanwhile Ilithaine lightly sipped, almost lapping, at the whiskey in his own, tilting the glass just enough to take in what seemed like drop by drop. He lowered it when he saw Theris looking at him again.

"It's good with a bow." Theris took a sip himself. "I thought I should ask."

"Yes. Yes. You're right to."

"Now if you wouldn't mind my asking a little more." Theris lowered his voice. "First I meant to ask you about Auzkovyn, but I don't think I did. I know what _I_ came there for, but I don't think you knew the Moondowns. Who did you do it for?"

Ilithaine blinked slowly, looking as though Theris had asked him why he needed to eat. Then he shook his head just as slowly, looking as though he'd taken a dose of Lady or else a dose of Tanthul's power. "My family. They're – they're –"

"Your _family_?" Theris blurted. And however sharp it might have sounded, however skeptical, for a moment there was near nothing going on in all parts of Theris's head but blank shock – and from there, nearly as blank horror as he asked, "He had your family killed?" With some inkling of hope, if it could be called that, "Or threatened?" Ilithaine hadn't mentioned it while they were at the diner yesterday, but they'd been dancing around any mention of the early morning's bloodshed. And with Tanthul nobody had been saying much at all.

"No." Ilithaine's second languid head-shake turned, midway through, into a frenzied movement, setting his hair aflight, that put Theris in mind of sped-up video and the convulsions of a seizure. "Threat yes but no. Not him. Not my family either. Not _mine_. But it could've been mine. That's the thing. I thought it was mine at first but that's stupid, that couldn't happen nowadays the way I saw it."

"Saw it?"

"Yes. In Reverie." He paused. "You probably don't know. Things in Reverie are supposed to be true."

 Theris did in fact know, from one psychology class or another, but he saw little gain in pointing this out and simply nodded.

"So the first time I saw it I thought it was what happened to… the ones that had me first. The Ilithaines had me second, did I tell you? They found me in a park and then they did the paperwork. I knew that and I thought that what I saw was what happened before they found me. Part of what happened that I ended up there for them to find and I saw it then and forgot it. You see?"

Theris nodded again.

"But it didn't match. Too many bodies. It would've been thirty-six years ago and if that happened so soon people would see it. People would know it. And they didn't. So it was history, I got that when I looked it up. The Dark Court. You probably don't know but I know. Warning. Not mine. But that can't happen to mine. Won't happen… I did see her. I saw her but I don't remember but the arrow. Yes. The arrow. That makes sense." Ilithaine stared at the glass as though trying to remember what it was (making Theris aware again of his own) before tilting it again, further, and gulping down the rest.

When he lowered it again his face was twitching like an attempt at suppressing laughter was about to fail spectacularly. He bit his lip, seeming to restrain a grin by an even barer margin, and said "I used to read it all the time. See it, you see, in Rizzen… Rizzen Elfkin and all that!" Strangled cries – "Ah! Ah!" –  like he'd skipped straight to the stage where he couldn't breathe from laughing. _He's not drunk already?_ "Jump through the trees, hop about the rooftops. And I looked down at her standing at the corner and looked like I could just pick her up, in my hand you know, and I thought, don't look down, that's the first rule – but looks like I got down all right this time."

Theris almost nodded again but thought then about what he would be nodding to and kept his head still. The feel of his glass in his hand grew unreasonably irritating and he wished he were closer to the kitchen table so he could discreetly put it out of the way. He tried to think of some reply to that but Ilithaine didn't seem to be expecting one; he too seemed to be trying to figure out what to do with the glass. Finally Ilithaine stood with exaggerated care and began to move forward. Theris got up as well for lack of any better ideas, silently took the empty glass from his hands, and lined them both up next to the bottle on the counter.

When he looked back Ilithaine's face was set as a death mask, body straight, hands folded, chin lifted. "Sorry."

"It's no problem. Have you had dinner yet?"

Ilithaine looked down, unfolding his hands.

Theris moved to the refrigerator. "It wouldn't hurt to have more." He quickly found the red cartons and began adding them to the line on the counter. "I was planning Shou, or if there's something else…"

"Shou's fine."

"Are you set for the night?"

"Oh." Ilithaine looked as though he were about to move again but decided against it. "About that."

Theris glanced to the backpack, still slumped over on the floor. "Changing hotels?"

"I was going to. While it's early. I had coupons. They're not good for another night so I was going to –"

"You can have the couch if you want."

"Oh. Thank you."

Chunks of the rice and battered prawns and chopped green stalks of some vegetable ended up staying cold, or at least not nearly as hot as the bowls they were spooned into for reheating had quickly become; Theris stirred his around to help the heat diffuse and asked if Ilithaine wanted his in for another few seconds, but Ilithaine declined and cleaned his bowl with efficiency somewhat disconcerting after the last two dining experiences, when Ilithaine had eaten like a bird planning to save for the rest of the flock (though Theris hadn't been much better). Theris turned him down when he tried to help with the dishes, and regretted it when he put away the last spoon and turned around to see Ilithaine sitting on the couch, where he'd apparently stayed for the entire duration. "Can I lend you a book?" Ilithaine shrugged. Theris pointed him to the bookcase. Ilithaine picked out one of Theris's old crime books and proceeded to sit there riffling the pages front-to-back, back-to-front.

Theris, not a natural conversationalist at the best of times, made several efforts over the next couple hours. Most everything of sufficient lightness seemed to have been exchanged yesterday morning. Ilithaine had already told him about bladesong class, explained extracurricular points and career prospects and cultural preservation and simple _attraction_ , while Theris had already told him about his two jobs and law study planned to start in autumn (a judge or a police officer, he'd thought, maybe social work, or maybe just maybe a vigilante killer). He ended up asking about the bow and Ilithaine duly opened the long case, showing him it and sharp-tipped arrows with black fletching. There was also space for a sheathed sword which Ilithaine said was "real," a sword for fighting. With permission, Theris picked up and examined one of the arrows. "Do they sellthese?"

"Maybe. These I made."

In Theris's ears his own voice was starting to sound high and strained. "Did you?"

"For class."

"They're… a nice job," said Theris. "Not that I know that much about that, but to _me_ …"

Ilithaine reached out and took the arrow back.

***

He kept his computer in what had been labeled the "bedroom/dining" alcove in a back corner of the apartment, on the desk next to his bed, and after saying good night, offering his spare bedding and having it declined, and pulling the dividing curtain to, he sat at it and looked up the Dark Court, as related to elves and drow, under references for history and mythology and theological history. It gave Theris a strange feeling scrolling through the results, as though he were a voyeur; he'd used to feel that way at one point with the crime books, wondered what kind of person he was to seek out and read through the gore and the suffering. Reading through Ilithaine's gore and suffering started it up again. But he kept reading about the Dark Court Slaughter, about a murdered family and a vow sworn and a death and a sponsored apotheosis and allies – _Fenmarel Mestarine, Solonor Thelandira, Shaundakul, Callarduran Smoothhands, Shar, Hoar…_

Once, for his nameday, he'd gotten a book of myths from the "Ancient Kingdoms" – Mulhorand and Unther and Chessenta – shaped like a large picture book, and indeed with plenty of pictures; but on reading the words and looking closer at the pictures he'd wondered if Ander had done more than open it to an innocuous bit before he bought it as an ideal present for an eight-year-old (though Theris himself had no objections). As of late he'd reclaimed it from an attic box back at the house and started keeping it on the desk as well. The alarm clock, the Tormish protection charm his little sister made for him in arts and crafts on some other nameday, and various other nightstand detritus had accumulated atop it. He unearthed it now; when he opened it, it naturally fell to the two-page spread containing the final battle between Assuran and Ramman. This was a recent development. It had used to fall open to the final battle between Gilgeam and Tiamat, indicating his reading preference at eight, and he couldn't help but be a bit disappointed at that. It didn't seem quite symbolically appropriate.

In the picture Assuran was bloodied, arms flung out, and it looked like he'd just finished flinging lightning at his enemy. The words established it wasn't so; what he had done was redirect Ramman's own thunderbolts back upon him. Ramman, meanwhile, had a look of dawning comprehension as to his imminent death. Theris tried to remember if he'd ever felt sorry for Ramman when looking at the picture, but all he could remember – and all he felt now – was vaguely derisive glee, _got what he deserved_.

_And wouldn't it be funny if it turned out to be a Ramman complex after all?_

He spent some time sitting in front of the computer, the book open on his lap, with an occasional flipping back and forth to examine valiant Tchazzar or merry Bast or Gilgeam and Tiamat again, until he heard the thump beyond the curtain.

When he pulled it back Ilithaine was writhing on the floor, the thump of his landing being followed by the patter of his flailing limbs. Even as Theris wondered if one of the things Ilithaine hadn't told him about was a predisposition to seizures, he'd reached him, knelt down, and one stray arm sent him back and the book to the floor (until then he hadn't noticed he'd taken the book with him). Theris was standing and continuing to back off, sliding the book along the floor with one foot and considering when to move forward again, when Ilithaine stilled and his gasp seemed to suck half the air from the apartment. A corresponding yell failed to follow. Instead Ilithaine's breath came out in a puff, and he started to pick himself from the floor.

"Are you all right?"

Ilithaine shook his head, briefly mute, but as he sat back on the couch he said "Fine."

In the back of his head Theris knew better than to take that at face value. The rest of his head kept him from saying anything about it. Instead he picked up a cushion that had been knocked to the floor and propped it back up on the end of the couch. He was prodding it, properly redistributing the stuffing or some such thing, when Ilithaine said "They said he was a _tael_."

Theris thought back. _Tael._ Bladesinger in training, cultural cornerstone. Breakfast at the diner, with a flock of them. There was their teacher, who'd been sedate and polite all the while. There was the one who called them over, who'd had tiny horns just visible poking through his hair and holes neatly tailored into the back of his sweater and shirt to accommodate a small pair of batlike wings. Floshin, yes, he remembered.

And then there was the one with the white braid and the red jacket, far shorter of speech and, Theris estimated, of height. At points he'd seemed to stare at them, though that could've been a natural consequence of where he was sitting in relation to them. The drow. Floshin had called him –"Argith?"

"Argith…? Yes. Him. Didn't you see it?"

"I don't think so."

"But you saw it with me."

He tried to recall any mental twinge at the sight of this Argith, any whisper in the back of his head, and came up empty. "One… of us?"

" _No_." Ilithaine's arms wrapped across each other. "Another one. Not of us. Of _them_."

"Of course I saw he was a drow –"

"Yes. Of course a drow. But more than that. I remember now. Got a reminder. The girl on Palace and Toal, you said. Black and rings. What would you call that?"

"The style?" _Sharran caught a fucking arrow this morning._ "Maybe sharran –"

"No. Not Sharran. I should know that. Don't know what to call it but I know what not to call it. All her rings. Her _rings_."

And now came the twinge, the images sudden and certain, but even as they came he was shaking his head. "I see but… it's not the same. They're not the same. I can't say I know what to call her but it's a woman wearing the rings." Theris paused. "Argith isn't half-woman, is he?" It sounded like something he'd once read about Corellon Larethian. His mind proceeded to trace that tidbit to a paperback on an Evereska sex-murder that he'd picked up in college and then settled on its laurels, pleased to be of some mediocre use.

"Not the same like that. Rings – that's different. But same in their purpose. Now books call them the _Dark Seldarine_ ," he spat, suddenly on his feet again, " _aillesel Seldarie_ , they'd tear it all to pieces if they could. I saw how he looked at me back there." Theris hadn't seen that, and said so. "Like he wanted to bite out my throat." Theris recalled that Ilithaine had walked over to the booths with him without breathing a word of that, and he said that too. "Well, I didn't think he was going to try anything like that. Not there, in front of his teacher and his _classmates_ , can't keep fooling them that way."

"He wouldn't need to fool them if he wasn't pretending." _Did I say that out loud?_

_Yes indeed, and I damn well knew that._

"I didn't know myself," he added further. "Not until last Marpenoth." Or until even later than that, in Tarsakh, the first night after he'd heard about Caron, and the next time he went to the shelter he'd looked to Grace Tanthul and she'd lifted her hood for a moment and he could tell they both knew now, even if he still wasn't quite sure just what he knew. "But then I don't know about this one's… god."

" _I_ know about that one," said Ilithaine. "He acts a good game but it'll come out like it did before. The other one's already come out, what she did in Reverie –"

"Enlighten me. What?"

"Haunted it is what. Or tried to. Cut off the – the – what did she think showing me dead people all over again would do? Did she think I'd curl up and wail and let her suck my mind out?"

"Sometimes," said Theris, "there are things you have to do, whether or not _they_ do anything obvious. Aren't there?"

"You don't understand." Ilithaine turned away. "You don't know them like I do. Assuran has so many other revenges to manage but these are _mine_. I know. Revenge. There's a whole dead world out there calling for revenge against her. As for him – even Eilistraee realized, eventually. It was her own blade that finished him. But he isn't finished. She isn't finished. And I'd bet anything that somewhere out there there's the other three. Four, with Eilistraee."

"The other three." He recalled how the pages he'd pulled up had mostly referred to the drow pantheon (except Eilistraee, they would add) as a whole. One of them, though, had given the name of each of the drow gods he counted foe, with handy links to entries. There had been five names (plus Eilistraee).

"The other three. At least there's others. If the likes of them were here and the likes of Sehanine weren't…"

Nowadays Shevarash was _socially unacceptable_ , Ilithaine had said, and Theris knew why. Some of the books had talked about the impossibility of reasoning with certain types of killers, how secure their beliefs would be in their archon voices or their status as the newest Chosen of Mystra and how their archons needed to be pleased or their status needed to be consecrated by the blood of unbelievers. Theris himself could be reasoned with, he was quite certain, and that was part of why he then said, "No, I can't say I understand. Those wars are over, aren't they? No more wrongs on that scale."

"You said that one – Auzkovyn –"

"That was his crime. They're like anyone else, responsible for themselves – if some orc somewhere had run down Caron, I wouldn't have gone and taken revenge on Garenka for it. I'd take revenge on _him_. It's something like with sharrans. Wasn't the Dark Court more than six thousand years ago? I know elves hardly ever reach a thousand and it's not any longer for drow, right? Their gods would've lived that long and longer, but they're the _gods_. The drow alive now don't remember. They aren't responsible. They didn't kill Shevarash's family –" Ilithaine drew in a sudden breath, loud in Theris's pause. "And as a collective, they're killing no one else's. I've read up on this justice. It can work. It does." _I have to think it does,_ an intruding thought piped up. "But there are some things common to it that it can do without. This… generalization is one of them."

"Generalization. You mean racism. Don't you?"

Theris said nothing. Ilithaine turned back, staring at him for ten heartbeats, an arrhythmic twitch in the line of his mouth. Then he laughed, or shouted – some forceful expulsion of air, at any rate – and clapped his hands to his face, making several more noises that were similar if muffled. When he did lower his hands he revealed a grin so radiant, such an artist's ideal rendition of quintessential joy, that for a moment Theris felt cold certainty some fuse had blown or was about to blow.

"Did you think I was going to set out to wipe all drow from the face of Faerun?" It wasn't really a question. "And the underneath of Faerun, of course."

"That was the reasonable conclusion."

"It is?"

"'The utter destruction of the drow and the dark deities they serve,'" Theris recited. "'Only then may the joy of life begin anew.' In the dogma. Unless something was lost from the original Elven? It _is_ the Weave."

"The Weave?"

"The Weave." A thought fluttered. "The electronic one."

"Oh. Right. That. Forget my head next." His smile flickered momentarily. "Not lost, no. You're right. Things _are_ different now. They _don't_ raid, they don't make war, they don't do things like the Dark Court. Not like when it started up. But the gods, now. The gods are different. The gods remember and the gods are alive. And the gods have their followers. Not as a whole, not these days, but not a few are."

"Oh?"

"The girl with the rings, she was one. And Auzkovyn. Even if he said something for Erevan I know where he belonged."

"And how did you know?"

"I saw him. He was in some restaurant talking and I heard him say it. _Vhaeraun_. _Swear to Vhaeraun._ That's how I knew."

 "Vhaeraun," Theris repeated. "I've heard it around." Around the same frequency, he thought now, as he'd heard mention of Eilistraee. "But he doesn't have the reputation of the other one, does he?" The other one, the nameless goddess, and he recalled now that a rather creative interpretation of her clergy had starred in an interminable procession of horror films. "Yes, that wouldn't mean anything about _him_ ,but that means there are followers of his who'd know that reputationand behave accordingly. I don't think that would deserve punishment."

"But not _him_ ," said Ilithaine. "You told me."

"I didn't tell you before you went after him."

"He tried to kill that little girl and all those other things. I didn't know it just from the words he said, then. That would've been pretty stupid of me. He deserved it. He didn't follow Vhaeraun's _reputation_. So it worked out. Poetic justice. Isn't it?"

_Yes, isn't it. Isn't it?_

"Honestly. Did you really think that? That I'm some nut?"

"So, this flexibility. Does it also apply to smiling?"

Ilithaine's smile went out. "I – well, why not? I can if I want to. There's not some law."

"I see."

"No you don't! I never swore it anything. If it's got a problem then it's its problem. Just because it tells me things doesn't make me it. I'm not its… its _avatar_. It's right about some things but it can't just up and start running my life. Not when things are different now." As he spoke, the initial shout had gradually dwindled to a frenetic mutter. "And they _are_." He fell back to the couch. "They are."

"Yes," said Theris. "They are." He paused. Ilithaine seemed to be conducting a wrestling match between his hands. There was a reason the staff liked to have Tanthul to talk people down. "Do you think your Reverie will be… attacked again?" He almost offered to lend his sister's protection charm.

"I'll be fine." Ilithaine's voice was muffled by the hands over his face. "Fine. Just need a… a minute. Good night."

***

_3 Mirtul_

Theris didn't remember his dreams, but that morning he half-ran to the curtain. When he pulled it open again the couch was empty, the weapons case and backpack absent. Clothes, both loose and in plastic bags, were scattered across the floor. There was a note on the kitchen counter, written on the back of a Waukeen-Mart candy coupon. He quickly found the words were jotted out in a different alphabet, Espruar most likely, and wasn't sure whether it was a code of some kind or a simple mistake on the part of someone who was used to people around him understanding the language.

Garenka had once taken a semester of Elven for a lark and because it filled the Diversity and International Culture requirement at her college, so when he arrived at the shop that morning he gave her the note. "Says thank you," she said after a moment's examination. "That's it."

"Thank _you_ ," he said. "Know anyone who could use that?" The flow of candy from the holidays did well enough for him.

She slipped it into her pocket. "Sure do."

In the inside of the local section of the _Waterdeep Herald_ there was a small article on the Auzkovyn case with a bit on Shardax Telenna; he was offering a reward, arranging a funeral (Theris wondered who would attend it). There was another on a girl of forty-three, identified as Rauva Kenafin. She lived on Rose Street and it had happened on Palace and Toal, but the article was lengthened somewhat by the novelty of the murder weapon.

"That was near your shelter, wasn't it?" said Garenka.

Theris swallowed. "Not that near."

His thoughts congealed, and his horror with them. It all made sense in the night. Now it made too much sense. _Justice. Revenge. Shevarash's vow._ Auzkovyn was Auzkovyn and perhaps Rauva Kenafin sold Lady on the side, perhaps Argith wished to tear out their throats.

_But he didn't know that._

Tanthul came in just before lunch break. She swiveled the postcard stand for a while, fingering the glossy images of various Waterdhavian landmarks. Then she turned to the shelves of assorted figurines, and the snowglobes of the locales in the postcards. Theris had been organizing the one bookshelf and he kept one hand on the spine of a guidebook as she moved on to the handmade cards for all occasions, then the section of wall full of slogan stickers and buttons ranging from an assortment of "I Love WD" to, along the side, "If you're a Sharran, where were you when we sacked Sembia?" Her hand drifted over the latter several times before she brought it to the register and had Garenka ring it up. She glanced toward Theris then, and held his gaze several seconds before making the sticker disappear into her purse and going out the door.

He followed her outside, past the coin-operated newspaper boxes to the bus stop, and stood beside where she was seated on the bench. "I hate to ask again," he said, "but have you seen Ilithaine?"

"Yes."

"There's someone else like us," he said, and told her what he knew about Argith, what Ilithaine had said, what Ilithaine meant to do; as he spoke he felt his own horror rise.

Tanthul said, "Yes. I'll take care of it."

Just like that? "Take care of it?  Isn't there –"

"Yes. Take care of it. See to it." Her gloved hand emerged from her wide sleeve and clasped Theris's. "Don't worry about it. You've done enough."

That was one of the worst things she could have said.

Back at the apartment he looked through what Ilithaine had left across the floor. Besides the clothes he found a Waterdeep guidebook, a water bottle, a boxed thermometer, disposable hot and cold packs, and a wallet. There was no cash or money cards in the wallet, but it still contained a collection of crumpled candy wrappers in one pocket along with several more coupons, souvenir pressed coins that said Evereska Museum and Myth Drannor Historical Society, a library card, a bus card for the Cormanthor Transit Authority, and a student card with a picture of Ilithaine looking disconcertingly cheeky. Theris selected this last, made the rest of his preparations, closed his hand back around it and sat on the couch.

_You killed Rauva Kenafin_ , he thought. _You killed her because she wore rings. You're a killer. You're like me._

After a while – too long, the more panicked part of Theris thought – he lifted his head and inhaled deeply. He'd already put on his shoes and his jacket, and so there were no delays as he stood, slipping the card into his pocket, and walked out the apartment door, down the hall as the door fell shut and locked behind him, down the stairs, out the building door and along the sidewalk. Ilithaine felt far away at the moment, but Theris thought that he would have to catch up eventually.


	9. Ricky Caradoon, né Rizzo

_Those godsdamned gods, going and ascending barely before you've pushed your way out of your mother and besmirching your perfectly good name forevermore. At least I was young enough to pick up a serviceable nickname without too much fuss._

\- Cyric of Kelemvor, called Cyr the Searing, Doomguide, 1380 DR

 

**RICKY**

_(Black sun, jawless skull)_

_3 Mirtul_

Ricky had arrived in Baldur's Gate last night, set to seek his fortune. That morning he'd woken up with the whispers of Kel and Ariel spinning in his head, and that afternoon he nearly found his fortune on a bus bumper. He was rescued from this ignoble end to the saga of his life by a gallant knight in shining pigtails and what he'd at first mistaken for an Ilmatari school uniform. Once on the other side of the street he wondered briefly if he should try a swoon, but this particular knight seemed to be one of those duty-bound types, with all the natural chivalry of an herb rack that hadn't any chives, and the look on her face implied that while it was her duty to save him it was certainly not her duty to accept his grateful offering of sex afterward. Not that he was particularly turned on by Ilmatari schoolgirls. Or pigtails.

"That was fast," he said in lieu of any such offering, and stood up.

She blinked at him.

"Thought I was a goner."

"Well," she said with a hint of a smile, "you're not."

Ricky's first guess was that she was about his age. He would have guessed younger if she weren't (as he quickly noticed) taller than him. He would have guessed older if it weren't for the stockings (people still _wore_ stockings?) impossibly straight as though she'd glued them to the backs of her knees. If it weren't for her pleated skirt and matching blazer. If it weren't for her _pigtails_ , for the figurative love of Ilmater.

"So how old are you?"

"Pardon?"

Yes, she said _pardon_. Like some weird hybridization of schoolgirl and schoolmarm. "Oh," he said, putting his hands in his pockets and quickly jerking one out to catch the file under his arm, "what I'm going to say next, see, depends on whether you're legal or not."

It was really a stupid joke, he just wanted to see if she'd blush or if she'd slap him, but her laugh was surprisingly husky and made him hope she _was_ legal. "That's relative, isn't it?"

"In which case, seventeen."

"Eighteen."

"You're very well-preserved."

She looked conspicuously downward. "So are you."

"Point. Say, do you get it as much as I do?"

"That would depend on how much you get it, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah, it would." He tapped his chin. "I figure maybe once a week, more in foreign climes."

"Not bad."

"That's what I tell myself at night."

She laughed again. "So, is this a foreign clime for you?"

"Oh yeah. I'm from down south. About a yard shy of Nashkel."

"Oh. I was going to ask if your dad forgot something for the office." She nodded at the file. "Unless he's a serious commuter."

"Oh. Oh no. The thing is, well, I lied."

"About what?"

"About coming from the south."

"That's a quick retraction."

"Yeah, well. Actually I'm from the Sword Coast Home for Little Windwalkers. This," he brandished the file, "contains the secrets of my past."

***

As it turned out, the secrets of his past consisted of basically "we don't know anything about the secrets of your past." He rather hoped Ilmatari Schoolgirl, Ginger Bloodhawk, didn't remember to ask for follow-up. That is if they ever spoke to each other again.

Except there was an exception, and that was a copy of the Found Child certificate, dated from Flamerule of 2582, under the "working name" of Devaric Caradoon. He'd noticed from a plaque he passed on the way into Little Windwalkers that one of the founding members was a Bronica Caradoon. Conclusions were easily drawn, though he quickly dismissed the one that he was actually Bronica Caradoon's secret child since, according to the plaque, she'd died a hundred and fifty years ago.

The waiter was starting to give him the fisheye, so Ricky threw everything back into the folder, finished off the last refill of soda, paid, and left. He was a block away before realizing he forgot to tip, and counted it as no loss.

 _Devaric Caradoon_. It shortened to Ricky also, so would work nicely. Ricky Caradoon, had a nice ring to it. He'd never been particularly attached to Erik Rizzo, though until he got round to doing up the paperwork for an official change he had no objection to it. That was the name his might-as-well-call-them-parents-in-absence-of-biological-parents had given him, and he got along with them all right these days. Funny thing, that. He hadn't actually _left_ home until he'd started getting along better.

Of course, if he'd left before that he wouldn't have left with so much in the bank for his money cards, or a loan card that billed home "for emergencies" when all three of them knew what Ricky could be capable of classifying as an emergency and how little attention the other two tended to devote to the bills, or contact information for friendly aunts and uncles and cousins up and down the coast and as far afield as Silverymoon and Athkatla. Not that he'd any intention of using the last, but it was a nice thought. Oh yes, and they'd made sure he packed Good clothes, button-down shirts and carefully ironed slacks, so that the staff could try to pretend this particular little windwalker made good and was maybe headed to Peldvale or Waterdeep or Candlekeep in the fall.

Ricky debated with himself over the advantages of staying with the Good clothes, decided that if he kept them on tomorrow he'd just look like an amateur stuffed-up accountant fleeing financial scandal, and so changed back into a purple band shirt and black denims in the hotel room (he'd noticed he always seemed to look like someone like that so why try to deny it?). He had another night charged at the hotel, and decided he might as well use it. There was a theater across the street where he went to watch a few movies that were awkward going to with parents. Before flopping out on the bed, he set the alarm on the clock radio.

He dreamed about a girl with dark hair who grabbed hold of him and outraced light and sound. He dreamed about a dragon. He dreamed the dragon came _this_ close to biting off Kel's head before it dissolved and Ariel laughed and laughed her hair in braids. "What do you want?" he asked, and she said "What any woman wants from her man." And then he'd stabbed her and the knife was in pink pieces wreathed in smoke and Kel said "Ariel" and he had no right to say that because he was such an incredible asshole so he stabbed him, too, with a jagged piece of the knife, and Kel smiled and talked about what a great time it was, what a great life. "You never deserved her," he said. "You don't even deserve that skank. Fucking nearly got us killed for the Ring of Winter you greedy son of a bitch."

Kel said still smiling "Fucking actually killed _me_."

He dreamed his real mother sang to him, his real mother the artist he'd gradually constructed over the years, with poetry published in little magazines and a library bound in leather with ribbon bookmarks, and the song was so very profound he couldn't understand a word of it.

***

_4 Mirtul_

He found Ginger Bloodhawk's phone number in the pocket of his Good pants. He decided that was the safest place for it, and he called her and asked her to change her contact name from Rizzo to Caradoon. Starting small, that was the ticket.

She called back as he was heading down the street. He didn't finish realizing what the vibrating thing was (he'd set it there for the theater and not changed it back), getting out the phone, and fumbling with it before she'd left a message. The message said "What makes you think I programmed you into my phone, anyway?"

"Huh," he asked the air, "what did make me think that?"

_A long dark braid and a laugh._

Maybe this was the beginnings of a fetish. When he was thirty-forty and either rich and correspondingly dissolute or poor and correspondingly dissolute maybe he would pay pretty girls to tie him up with their braided hair and be witty and laugh at their own jokes, which would be all right with him because they'd be good jokes.

Before heading north, he'd run Weave searches for advice on hitching rides, excluding the advice that just said not to. Ricky made his way to what had been described as a plum spot near an onramp onto Route 7, up the coast, which meant he had higher chances of finding someone who wouldn't assume he would up and stab them on the road. He'd written up a sign that said _Waterdeep, Scenic Route OK_. There was a bench and a metal pole that he guessed used to hold the sign for a bus stop. The seat looked bolted to the sidewalk; maybe the city couldn't bother to take it out. This was fine with Ricky. He sat on it, plugged in his ear buds, and turned his H-Shell to a suitable Break Enchantment screamfest before lifting up the sign and settling in.

By the time a junker with Tethyr plates pulled over, the H-Shell had shuffled its way to the last song of Thirdborn Sun's first topside album. It would've been poetically perfect if it were a drow who leaned over and cranked down the passenger-side window halfway – in real life, it was a plain old elf, except he had what looked like tattoos on his face. There were also tattoos on his arms, snaking down in interweaving lattices from under the sleeves of his dark brown tee, but Ricky's first thought, _Wow how did he hold still for that,_ concerned the angular face with its lattices and leaves, also partly concealed by a muss of hair. Then he realized it was probably face paint. All dolled up from a Living Sword Coast get-together or something.

"The scenic route, huh?" said the elf. All told he looked about as shifty a sort as Ricky.

Ricky pressed the stop button and cut off Thirdborn Sun in the middle of the chorus. "Well if you're in some kind of hurry that's okay too. It's just I'm not in any."

"Oh. I'm not, as it happens."

"That's good, right?"

He shrugged. His eyes were tilted almonds and before seeing them Ricky hadn't known that shade of browny-blue was possible. "Sure. Good. You can pay for your own hotel, food, etcetera."

"Sure."

They'd been a talk-silent hour up the Coast Way when Ricky got used to the car's jolting and figured that if he hadn't been asked by now he wasn't going to be asked. He turned off Shades of Saerloon and ventured, somewhat awkwardly, "Ricky Caradoon."

His eye moved incrementally toward Ricky for a moment. "Marius Aelrindel."

"Nice to meet you," said Ricky, and turned Shades back on to try and drown out his embarrassment.

Last night Ricky had stayed up later than he'd meant to at first. He was pretty sure there'd been advice about falling asleep in strange cars but right then he didn't care. He dreamed he was on horseback. At least he dreamed that until, in the dream, Kel's blow to his own back catapulted him to the ground.

"Ah," said Kel with a grin, "this is the life."

"Sure, Kel," said Ricky. "Whatever. Hey Kel, you think I'm going crazy?"

"You stabbed me, 'Ricky,'" said Kel. "What in Pandemonium do you _think_ I'll say to that?"

When he woke up the H-Shell was out of power, and Aelrindel hadn't stabbed him or strangled him or shoved him into the trunk for future homicidal purposes. Aelrindel looked for a moment like he was about to ask who Kel was, but he didn't, and Ricky didn't bring it up.


	10. Kiira

_I've always thought it best to celebrate before your adventures, in case you're in no condition to do so afterward._

\- Varanthia of Erevan Ilesere, Mischiefmaker, 824 DR

 

**KIIRA**

_(Shooting star)_

_3 Mirtul_

Sometime after midnight, Madh got around to him with inquiring about Veldrin. He inquired in a slow clear voice, as if it were fifty-fifty that Kiira would be too plastered to comprehend otherwise. Kiira probably would have been plastered at that point if Madh hadn't taken steps to limit his consumption, such as quickly refilling his cup with soda and, at some point, putting away the alcohol in some cranny of the house that Kiira hadn't yet found. Given that he'd stopped it happening, Kiira thought somewhat fuzzily, it was a bit unfair of him to talk like that.

"Veldrin?" said Kiira, shouting over the song and the bunch of people jumping around correspondingly. "Oh. Had a bad hair day."

Madh gave him a long look but didn't say anymore, as usual. Kiira had lost count of how many long discussions/arguments he and Veldrin had had with Madh Helder a slight phantom in the background, even if he had only been with them around ten years. These days Madh had sprouted to a lanky inch above Kiira (when had _that_ happened? Madh did these things quiet like, like how he'd made the wine quietly disappear), and put black streaks in his feathery hair, but the streaks only seemed to make him blend more. Not like Jezz Ulo, who was so determined to blend he stood out all the more. Kiira liked Madh; he was one of the friends he had in common with Veldrin even when they'd come apart for a bit.

Now Madh went off to dance as the music changed to something high and fluting and above all _slow_ , and Kiira stopped dancing to recline on the couch with another cola.

In retrospect, starting as he faintly heard the soda splashing onto the floor from his slackened hand, and realizing how many hours he'd been up, he figured that was a mistake.

"Veldrin called," said Madh in the morning. "He mentioned your house, and the Ulos."

Kiira guessed Veldrin wanted to make sure he hadn't been over after the party pranking Jezz and Driz. He rubbed his eyes.

"He seems kind of worried." _But not worried_ , he seemed to ask, _enough to come over?_

Kiira took another gulp of hot chocolate. Madh really was accommodating, what with the couch for the night and breakfast even if he said he needed to clean out the about-to-expires anyway. "A _really_ bad hair day. So I heard you've got a complete Rizzen Elfkin?"

"I didn't know you still liked it."

"Yeah, well, I do now."

Madh shrugged, apparently buying it. It wasn't as though it was an unusual thing.

***

"Look here," he cut off Veldrin, holding out a hand. "I got his address. Ilithaine's."

Veldrin pushed the screen across and reached out, snatching the bit of paper. "What did you do, hack his computer?"

"No! He still had the boxes around, is all. He was using them for his old homework and stuff. Those're some _big_ boxes. And I was just thinking, could come in useful, couldn't it?"

"Could."

"Aw, you're not still ticked, are you? Sometimes I really don't get you." Veldrin gave him his I-Could-Say-The-Same-For- _You_ -Eyeroll-Eyeroll Face. Kiira couldn't get that either. "You could've gone."

" _What_?"

"It would've been cool."

"Hair falling out all over the place. Yes. Very cool."

"Well, I don't see why just because _you_ couldn't go –"

"That's got nothing to do with it. I've got nothing to do with it. It's you off – off _gallivanting_ –"

"Well what've I got to _do_ but gallivant? I'm not the police or something, what else'm I supposed to do, just sit around and vegetate?"

Veldrin nearly closed the window on his fingers.

***

_… bet hes just jealous_

It was a couple of minutes, during which Kiira had moved on to working a knot out of his hair, before Mayae replied.

_He does sound a bit overbearing but of course I don't have all the information._

Pause. Kiira abandoned the knot. It had been in there half a tenday, a second half wouldn't hurt.

_Though maybe he thought you weren't taking a difficult time seriously?_

_I was taking seriously. Just got asked ok. and went. Not like im married to him or something._

Longer pause.

Kiira typed, _How's your sports?_

Even longer pause.

_OK._

_that's good._

Longer and longer.

Kiira typed, _Had a dream the other night where Princess Seniadra showed and I got her number._

Pause.

_Princess Seniadra?_

Kiira remembered now that it was email, not phone, but same difference. _Yeah she really exists. its a branch._

_Does the number work?_

_Havent tried yet. gtg do that._

***

_I was thinking of going to High Forest on summer holiday._

_Rly? Thats too bad, I was gonna do silverymoon._

_We could meet halfway._

_veldrin'd think were running off together._

_Is that a problem? Think he has designs on you?_

_ha… designs._

_Last meet of Lunar Club, GTG._

***

That night dragons dodged in and out of his Reverie to the Thirdborn Sun he'd had pumping out of his computer speakers at top volume as he went under. "Hey, wait up!" he yelled but they just laughed at him so he turned into a dragon too, and flew with blurry quicksilver wings to catch up. They nodded as if they'd expected it, and a pair of them flew up holding the sheathed Craulnober moonblade between their claws. He took it in his hands (suddenly he had hands again), said "Hey thanks" and wondered if he'd fallen asleep without noticing.

Either way, he thought, might as well try to pull the moonblade. Wasn't as if it would kill him. But before he could do that, Veldrin and Mayae fell past, tangled up in arms and legs and Mayae's long silver hair while Veldrin's red hair just flapped about.

"Running off together?" he yelled after them as they rapidly reduced into specks.

Veldrin yelled back, "Fuck no!" At least this time he wasn't chopped up, in the past or not.

Then along came another elf, and he called Kiira Lankieral, so Kiira guessed he meant business or else was clueless. Maybe both. He looked like a goldie except his hair was silver and quite long, kind of like that one portrait of Azariah Craulnober, though not as long as Mayae's. He had on an eyepatch, like your stereotypical pirate, so Kiira said "Didn't I see you on Ruathym?"

The elf went all stiff. "No you did not."

"Friend of her Highness?"

"You could say that."

"So can I have your number?"

"No."

"Name? Since you know mine."

He put up his nose. "Lamruil Sylvar."

"Now I _know_ I saw you on Ruathym," said Kiira, though when he thought about what he remembered of the Ruathym vacation from when he was twenty-four, he didn't actually.

"No you did _not_."

"I could've sworn," said Kiira, though he really couldn't have.

"Well, you would have been wrong."

"You look kinda like Veldrin when he's ticked when you do that."

He quickly put his nose back down. "The Princess is otherwise occupied, so I have the task of contacting you."

"She could have just emailed."

"As a matter of fact, she could not."

"So what was the point of –"

"Where were you last night?"

"Madh's party."

"No, when you should have been in Reverie, or at least conscious to receive my sending."

"Oh. Sleeping. At Madh's party."

" _Sleeping_."

"Yes, Mother."

"That joke is even older than those puerile insinuations about Ruathym."

"Well I was just _asking_ –"

"What is the extent of your powers so far?"

"Well," said Kiira, "I can _move_ things," and just at that moment Lamruil Sylvar's hair jumped into curls.

As Lamruil Sylvar muttered and tried to unwind the coiled tubes, Kiira remembered where he'd seen that hair last – on Theris Frost standing in Kren Auzkovyn's apartment. As he remembered, he _reached_ a bit, more deliberately, and the hair all went from silver to black. At that he started to wonder if he hadn't been behind Veldrin's hair turning color after all.

"Lankieral Craulnober," said Sylvar, his nose tilting precariously, sounding like he was _trying_ to sound like the wet blanket on any given show, "the only people amused by these antics are those younger than you."

"Old Mr. Florenn at the cemetery liked it when I did the –"

"And just how old is 'old' Mr. Florenn?"

"Sixty-something."

"There you are."

"If you _must_ be racist," said Kiira, "my cousins in Old Rheith range from forty-two to a hundred eighteen and _they_ think my –" He only had two cousins in Old Rheith, but anyhow.

"Rheitheillaethor."

"Rheitheillaethor. Sure. What went up yours and died, anyhow? _You're_ not a Rheither, are you?"

"I simply have respect for the language."

"What, you chew people out over Rhyman?"

" _Rhymanthiin_."

"There you are."

"You are making this harder than it has to be."

"Could you excuse me a moment? I've got a moonblade to pull."

"The moonblade does not _exist_."

"Yes it does. Anyhow do _you_?" Kiira took hold of the hilt.

***

_4 Mirtul_

He spent a few hours on his desktop computer sorting out his contacts list, then putting in filters so he could restrict it to Waterdhavian addresses. Quite a list remained, and he spent a while longer trying to remember who each of them was. There was Tamsen, who was a third-or-fourth cousin several times removed, but being (mostly) human she was probably out and about by now, all the way to Chult for all he knew, so he put in a note to check a phone book. Same went for the Nimersyl twins, being halfers; they'd have graduated by now, most likely. And was it a college year for Lana Gil? How about Shintle?

All in all, though, counting out people who wouldn't be there and the chunk of people it'd probably slip his mind to visit, he didn't think he'd be short of social options.

So he was happily occupied imagining a proper drinking contest with Shintle when a hand came rapping at his window. He went to the window, saw the half-hidden shock of red, and opened up.

Veldrin vaulted one-handed over the sill, the hood falling off the rest of the way in the process. He tugged it back up as he said, "What do you think about going to Waterdeep?"

His face had gone all odd. Kiira mentally dubbed it the Veldrin Auzkovyn My Loved One Is Dying of Cancer Face. At least that's how he thought it would look, and he could assume that wasn't the case because if Veldrin's dad had cancer now was a strange time to find out, and if it was something more immediate Veldrin would certainly be calling from the hospital instead of jumping in Kiira's window.

"Reverie thing again?"

Veldrin answered him by saying, "Well? What do you think?"

"Well," said Kiira, swiveling the monitor, "just as long as I get to pull my moonblade while we're there."


	11. Tarlyn

_Miyeritar was ours before the faeries stole it. The city above us used to be ours. Personally, I think it all still ought to be._

\- Chaszyrd Thenduk, called Chaszyrd the Crazy, Weapons Master of Eryndlyn, 1616 DR

 

**TARLYN**

_(Spider, sword, mace)_

_3 Mirtul_

The scabbard lying beside the Craulnober moonblade in the display case was a work of martial art in itself but, according to the placard, dated only back to the 1400s, while the moonblade was hundreds of years older and in much better condition. A nearby human tourist suggested to his companion that they'd been swapping in shiny new blades every two hundred years or so. Marteil snickered. Fela, who had the Nailo moonblade sheathed back in Rhyman and awaiting her hundredth nameday, gave the tourist a dirty look.

Tarlyn had a good look at the blade a second later, and he thought that if he hadn't learned about how magic made things last he might've come to the same conclusion. It was too perfect, laid out there without a trace of rust or tarnish. The runes down the blade, part Draconic and part Espruar, were familiar but indecipherable. Carving tended to weaken metal for practical purposes, but these weren't carved, he remembered, they would've been created from _inside_ , through magic channeled through the moonstone in the hilt. The stone might've been a snag if he'd seen it at any time when it wasn't dormant, but as it was there weren't photographs from a time where the moonblade would've been active and the stone iridescent, so he couldn't see what he'd have missed and he could admire the milky white with blue flecks.

He drew in a long breath and envied Fela. The others had already seen moonblades on display in Leuthilspar, loaned out by the families in the same way the Craulnobers had loaned theirs to this museum, so if they'd ever an urge to exclaim or draw in breath, he thought, they'd probably got it all out while he was lying around the hotel room or throwing up in the toilet. He thought that until he heard Xarieth Canterlea come up next to him and mutter "Corellon, I want one."

"It'd probably turn you to cinders," said Marteil. "I say that advisedly, because it'd do it to me too."

Instant cinders, thought Tarlyn suddenly, were at least better than your legs snapping one by one. To the interminable _swish_ of a blade aimed for your neck. Then he thought, _damn, I thought I was over that._

Lissy said, "Haven't we had this conversation before?"

Xarieth folded his arms in the corner of Tarlyn's eye and muttered, "Still."

"Well I guess Argith didn't hear it the first time," said Marteil, "so now we've that taken care of."

On the nearby wall there were lengthy blocks of text on the history and legendary powers of the sword, as well as explaining the Craulnober family's retained ownership rights ("Makes sense in the long run, I guess," said Lissy. "I mean, suppose all the moonblades woke up again and then they couldn't get theirs back from the museum? That'd be horrid."). Tarlyn paid little attention; he could look all that up on the Weave to the same effect, if he wanted to, but he couldn't do the same for the sword.

Of course it wouldn't be any more friendly with him than it would be with Xarieth or Marteil, or even Isaril or Fela.

***

"Hey, Argith!" From his position at his opened duffel, Marteil sent something flying across the hotel room. Tarlyn, pulling his formal tunic from his own bag, just barely raised his hand in time. "It was going to be for your nameday but I figured I'd misplace it by then, and looks like you could use it tonight, so here you go. You weren't hoping for a moonblade, were you?"

"Wouldn't it turn me to cinders?" Whatever it was was wrapped in a folded-over paper bag, which proved to have designs in dark blue and the logo of a shop he remembered glimpsing near Leuthilspar harbor before Merytheal made him lie back in the bus with a glass of water.

"Still, thought I'd ask. Anyway thirty's kind of young for one, don'tcha think? I'm sure the noble elf-sister Nailo would agree."

Tarlyn fished inside the bag and drew out a thin, glossy slip of paper. He could make out columns of numbers on the other side, and on the basis of this he held it before him with two fingers, eyes exaggeratedly averted.

"Um?"

Isaril turned around from sashing his tunic and sighed. " _Receipt_."

Marteil bounded across the room and relieved him of it. "Oops. Well, it's not your nameday really, so can you forgive me?"

"We'll see." Tarlyn turned the bag upside down. Something silver dropped into his hand accompanied by unwinding lengths of shiny ribbon, nearly if not the same shade of light blue as the tunic now flopping halfway out of his bag.

"I was going to ask for a gift slip," said Marteil, "but then I thought, hey, you're not flying back just to return it, right?"

"Right."

The silver in his palm turned out to be a crescent moon, with a slot the ribbon passed through and knotted over.

"But then I thought – oh, it goes in your hair. Unless of course you've got a better idea."

"Okay." Tarlyn closed his hand over it. "Um, thanks."

"Don't mention, don't mention. Otherwise my grandpa Malkizid in the Abyss'll notice, and then he'll catch on that I've missed my puppy-kicking quota and he'll drag me down in a puff of brimstone and give me – oh Corellon on a candy bar – he'll give me a _talking-to_."

Tarlyn curled his fingers tighter over the crescent, stomach inexplicably curling as well, and wondered if whatever bug he'd gotten in Evermeet was making a second try.

"Wasn't Malkizid a Baatorian?" said Isaril.

"What the hey," said Marteil. "Same difference."

***

"We'll meet in the lobby at eleven-thirty," said Merytheal as they waited in the station, a sword-carrying tunic-wearing legion that got several curious looks, "unless there are problems. I hope I don't have to remind you to be careful with these –" She rested her hand on the pommel of her sword, one of the handful of live steel blades in the group. Tarlyn's hand drifted to his own, another one. "– but just in case. Be careful. And be responsible."

_Careful. Responsible._

Tarlyn considered pleading sick now, running back to the hotel, and that was crazy. A few weird dreams and a girl with spiders on her dress and he was contemplating going into hiding. No point in indulging his insanity. He'd made enough trouble in Evermeet. He'd spent enough time lying around sick on Evermeet, more of _that_ was what would really drive him crazy.

_Careful and responsible and a sharp sword._

He considered, too, asking to switch his sword with one of the blunted practice ones (Xarieth, he thought, would happily oblige); that was crazy as well. Everyone else with one was over fifty and this one was half a gift – Tarlyn had worked summers for a basic one capable of chopping things, and Merytheal had helped him choose a better one and make up the price difference for his twenty-eighth nameday.

_Once she was well and certain you weren't going to go berserk with it at school, weren't going to turn that one bunch of smug fuckers into mince before throwing yourself on it. Isn't she going to be disappointed in you._

Sharpness, he told himself, had nothing to do with it. It was _his_ , he'd earned it, it showed how well he'd done, how good he'd gotten at _not_ getting into fights, at _not_ going crazy, and he was going to _keep_ showing it.

***

The Living Skullport party was in a hotel that was called Old Tower Inn but didn't look like it had seen many more years than Tarlyn. They swarmed through the clear glass doors into the lobby, then swarmed to the left on the desk clerk's direction, toward the sound of fiddles and flutes. The girl at the archway into the next room took a headcount and quoted a price. Merytheal dug into her bag.

"Ah, there you are! And _vendui, abbil –_ "

And there she was again, pushing between Lissy and Marteil, again wearing the black and purple dress with the spiders, now with a shimmery short cape fastened over it and what was that in her hand? She smiled up at Tarlyn and continued to chatter incomprehensibly. He stared back.

"Hey, Soldou," said Marteil as the chatter tapered off and she kept smiling, expectantly. "Long time no see, innit? He –"

"I don't speak it," said Tarlyn at the same time, realizing.

Soldou let out another unintelligible exclamation. "I mean, _what_? That's –"

"I wasn't _born_ knowing it."

"But didn't anyone –"

Tarlyn grit his teeth. " _No_."

Merytheal gave over the money and gave him a look. Tarlyn in turn looked down and to the side, ears warm.

"Oh. Um. That's…"

"Let's move," said Fela. "We're blocking the door."

Marteil looked around. "There's a door?"

"Figuratively."

They proceeded to unblock it, filing along the edges of the room where refreshments were laid out on a series of long tables, alternating with ivory-upholstered chairs. At the far end of the room a band played; the center served as a dance floor. Soldou recovered and was now speaking rapidly in Common.

"My mom and dad met up in Dambrath when my mom was doing an international semester, see, and my dad's really big on heritage and stuff I mean if he knew there was someone out there who didn't _speak_ it –"

"Like most of the people in the world," Marteil put in.

"You know what I mean. Anyhow if he knew he'd blow a blood vessel." She flailed one arm, sending open-jawed snakes whirling out from the handle. Tarlyn flinched back and it took longer than he thought it should have to realize they were plastic. "He almost did when I quit sign language. I mean – hey, Vesper!"

At her call, a girl in the center turned their way and waved in wide sweeping motions as she started dodging through the other dancers, holding up the long skirt of her deep red dress with her other hand. Her eyes were an oddly bright green at a distance; as she neared, Tarlyn saw that the pupil of each of them was as slit as the ones on the fake snakes on Soldou's whip. "Sannara!" she yelled back. "The bunch you were telling me about?"

_No, not snakes. Cats._

Green cat's eyes. long black hair, reddened mouth, why was it all –  

"Oh yeah, here you go," Soldou called back, flailing her arm again, and Tarlyn realized at the same time she seemed to that the "bunch" had mostly dispersed. Tarlyn himself remained, as did Lissy and Marteil.

"Oh, hello," said Vesper. "Sweet water and light laughter – no, that's goodbyes, isn't it?"

"Goodbyes," Tarlyn mumbled. "It's goodbyes."


	12. Larissa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains brief references to suicide.

_The best thing about an Assimilationist is they combine a knowledge of how to treat a girl (or a boy) with a knowledge of their rights._

\- Excerpt from _The Sensate's Guide to Racial Relations_ , 1569 DR

 

**LARISSA**

_(Red kiss, cat's head)_

He was giving her a weird look and Larissa couldn't figure why. She'd gotten looks over her clothes before, of course, but that was when she was busing back to her apartment mornings after, or when she wore things that were cut down _there_ and up _there_. The skirt was deep red velvet, long and opaque, and the bodice did more hinting than exposing. She could've picked a dozen that would've had his eyes just _pop_ , and all perfectly historically accurate.

_Gods and little fishes, don't tell me I hooked up with him once!_

Or was it just that he wanted to? Had a funny way of showing it.

"Allow me to introduce myself," said the other boy, taking a bow. The bow gave her a good view of the horns poking through his garishly blond hair and the small pair of batlike wings at rest against the shimmering gold-trimmed green of his tunic. "Marteil of House Floshin. And she's – damn, need the whole name, right? To be historical like."

"If you insist," said the girl. Her hair was bright silver held back with a dark blue scrunchie. While Marteil's skin was bronzed, hers was pale and blue-tinged. Half moon elf would be Larissa's guess. "E – Elysium Bell. Call me Lissy."

"Hey," said Marteil, "isn't that –" Lissy glared. "– Elysium like in Detective Sagrin? Who'dve thought?" Her face softened quickly.

"Tarlyn Argith," said the boy who was still giving her the weird look. He had a red jacket slung over one arm, mesh lining visible, looking as anachronistic as Lissy's scrunchie. His hair was in a thick white plait draped over his shoulder, capped off with a silver ornament and dangling lengths of ribbon that matched his sky blue tunic.

Sannara blinked. "That's funny."

Tarlyn shifted his weird look from Larissa to her. "How?"

"Well, I thought maybe you're adopted, but your name's all drow."

"I guess so. I… got it in the hospital. I don't know where they got it." He quickly shifted his gaze back. "Vesper what? Or something Vesper?"

"Oh, right. Vesper nothing, actually. Larissa Fariha." She half-curtsied. " _Formerly_ Larissa Vesper. Sannara here's just an old stick in the mud, as you can see by her dress, which is _so_ last millennium."

"You're _cruel_ ," said Sannara. "By the Dark Mother, I'm jealous."

"By the Masked Lady, these're your bladesingers?"

Dare stepped in, cloak thrown over his shoulders, adjusting the mask on the upper part of his face. Tarlyn stumbled back, then hurriedly rocked back forward.

"A fraction of 'em. And you were saying Masked _Lord_ not ten minutes ago, for the love of gods, Dare, be _consistent._ "

"I'm consistent in variety," he said. "I've got to get it right half the time. Anyway. Houndaer Vrinn, possibly at your service. I take Faerunian Express."

This kicked off another round of introductions. With that done, Tarlyn turned back to Larissa and said "You don't look married."

Marteil and Sannara cracked up. From Marteil or maybe even Sannara she'd probably have thought it was a pickup line, but she wasn't so sure about this one.

"Well, I'm not," she said. "Never was." All of them but Sannara were leaning in now, from Dare's slight tilt to Marteil's nearly-a-second-bow, sensing a story. "It's because of my grandma."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Which one?"

"On my mom's side. My grandma Fariha. She started out in Calimshan and hiked north to the Arrows. Met my grandpa on the way, in Aglarond."

"What was _his_ name?" asked Marteil.

"I forget. Well, she had my mom, and they had mom-kid adventures for twenty years, and then when Mom got married she went off and had more by herself. Sometimes, in Calimshan, people take their dads' names and use them for their last names if they're hard up for one, and my Vesper grandparents're really kind of boring, and I think Fariha sounds better. So."

So she danced with Marteil, and even a couple of turns each with Dare and Sannara, Lissy declined politely, with a laugh, and five seconds into his round Tarlyn looked like he was wishing he'd turned her down as well. When Larissa tried a move where the partners spun apart, arms outstretched and hands clasped, Tarlyn's fingers slipped out of hers and he spun away to a far wall, where he stayed for anywhere from about an hour to half of one – she last noticed him there at a half hour, and an hour was when she finished with another of the bladesingers wandering around the party and noticed he'd come away from the wall and was now being talked at by Marteil, who was simultaneously tugging him forward by the arm. He kept giving her that odd look, when they were looking at each other.

She slipped back to him after she saw Sannara brandishing her whip at him for laughs, and saw the way he leaped back from her with his hand clapping to the hilt of his sword. "Don't like them either, huh?"

"Not really," he muttered.

"They used to freak me out something awful before I got used to them, too. Sannara's nice, really, don't let the costume fool you."

"It's not."

Larissa shrugged, chalked it up as a good-faith try, and went to find someone who would welcome her company. She had no shortage of options.

***

_4 Mirtul_

"Yeah," Dare was telling Marteil a few hours later as they spilled out the doors into the night air, the main party ended and the participants splitting off into smaller ones, "I'm an Assimilationist. Unitarian sounds silly to me, too inclusive." He had his hand up and was doing the sign-switch – curled fingers for a dead spider, then tapping finger and thumb together for a full moon. "Unitarian sounds like it's the whole Seldarine getting in on the act. Maybe the whole Dark Seldarine, for that matter." Tap, tap. "Which I wouldn't mind for the most part, except of course Shevarash is a drowather and that calls the whole thing off, yeah?"

They were a knot in the crowd, pushing to the edge of the sidewalk – Tarlyn next to Marteil, next to Dare, next to Sannara, next to Larissa. Marteil was flagging down someone he recognized in the crowd. "Yeah it would," he said. "Except I think they're shuffling him out. Or into a corner. D'you know, when I was in Leuthilspar – hey, Lissy! Merytheal! – look, they only started letting _in_ drow on Evermeet roundabout six or seven hundred years ago, see, and I went up to the big temple of the Seldarine and I asked –"

Larissa looked around the street, mostly empty, and noticed how well she could see everything, how loud everything seemed. In fact she thought she could almost make out a shape on a roof, across the street –

And then she was making it out, more than making it out, it was like she was less than ten feet from it – from him – and he was nocking an arrow, drawing a bow –

She heard the cat (what cat?) mew. Then she heard herself yell, felt herself move. Everyone was moving together suddenly, pushing each other out of the way (or, inadvertently, _into_ the way). She came to rest sprawled in the gutter, air whuffing out of her lungs. Someone else was screaming.

"Ow," said Marteil above her. Then, through gritted teeth, " _Ow_." She got up and glanced toward Sannara, who'd clapped a hand to her cheek and was staring wide-eyed, then toward Marteil to see the black-feathered arrow sticking through the membrane of his wing, the wing sticking out from his back at nearly a right angle. It didn't look real to her at that moment. It looked like a variation of one of those gag headbands you could put on to make it look like there was an arrow through your head. He said then, almost conversationally, "I think I'm shot," whereupon his legs folded.

Dare screamed, then, as though he too was shot. Larissa spun and saw he was holding Sannara up, Sannara's head was flopped back and her hand was dangling at her side and was that blood on her face, on her hand? So much blood. Dare had torn his mask off and was pressing it against her face. "Sannara? Sannara wake up wake up, you can get up now, come on, it's not that bad, didn't get you that bad – "

It _looked_ that bad. Other people were starting to scream now. Some ran forward, surrounding Dare and Sannara and Marteil; others ran away, down the street or back into the hotel in their silks and leathers. Some just stood, blank-faced as Sannara had been.

"Fuck you, you –"

It took a while for her to place the voice. When she'd heard it, it had been much softer.

"You're dead, you fucker, you're _dead –_ "

Larissa turned around, facing the street opposite again. In the moonlight she thought she saw a flying white braid traveling down an alley, a glint of silver and blue. She heard Tarlyn Argith shouting, once more.

In that moment, she joined the runners.

A minute later, quite lost, she joined the cats.


	13. Tarlyn

_Hold fast, light take you all! If you can't take a few falling arrows I would hate to see you against their swords. At this distance they couldn't hit a fucking glabre –_

\- Last words of Kelzada of Selvetarm, Steel of the Blade, 1363 DR

 

**TARLYN**

_(Spider, sword, mace)_

"I'm going to kill you! _Kill_ you, fucking _kill_ you!"

If Ilithaine responded, it was drowned out. _They'll be calling the police now,_ he thought, distantly, _it's you they'll be hauling off, and you can't even manage to yell something_ smart…

Then it rose up higher, flooding out his thoughts, and he screamed one more time, "You're _dead_!" and concentrated on pursuit. There would be plenty of time to yell something smart when he'd caught up.

_He's dead he's dead he's dead, dead already but came back because the Seldarine wanted him, they wanted someone like him, tells you all you need to know… blood will tell he says what did I ever tell, what did I ever, what did I ever do to you, you started thousands of years before I did, what did I ever do before –_

_Wait what?_

He stopped some time later and looked up at the floors on floors above him, surrounding him, framing the sky – _the night sky, Night Above, the sky, falling up into the sky, the moon, her moon, not quite full but still fat and nearly so, yet to get the sickle edge –_ and none of the shadows moved, there were no familiar shapes above him. Had he lost the trail? Had he ever had it, to start with?

_No hunter, this one, they've got to point you somewhere and let go –_

_Has he slipped off? Given up for now? Or is he slipping about up there ready to put something else through your neck?_

Tarlyn stared up and for the first time in his life felt blind. So many streets in Waterdeep, so many buildings, so many alleys between them – he could see in the dark but not so far, not through walls –

He spun at a noise, grabbing his sword though not drawing it yet.

A striped cat perched atop a garbage bin, staring at him as he'd stared at Larissa Fariha.

_Cat eyes. Her cats, hers – forget her, forget her, what's hers, use what's yours._

He put a hand to a wall, leaned against it, closed his eyes.

_He has the best luck with spiders._

So many spiders in Waterdeep –

He fell up, seeing through a thousand thousand eyes, vision fragmented into thousands more.  Starting with the spider underneath the bin with the cat he moved outward until – yes, that way, the black hair and the unsmiling face and the still-strung bow –

He was startled, at first, that he wasn't there immediately, but still when he began to run again he felt like he was flying, like he'd drifted halfway out of his body and was following it as it sped down alleys and Ilithaine, Ilithaine –

The fragmented vision of Ilithaine vanished then, had it just ended with a _crunch_? No matter. By now he could see Ilithaine quite well, looking down on him, partly illuminated by the garish light of a motel sign several feet away from him on the roof. How many flights of stairs would he have to walk up, he thought, and looked for the entrance as he fast approached –

And then he stopped looking, just _ran_ , still flying, and now flying up the side of the building, arms and legs flailing and catching hold and propelling him ever upward –

He was always a climber, a climber and a biter. He'd scramble up into trees, he'd throw pinecones and apples and things, and when he had to come down and fight them he'd bite so hard they said once that he'd scarred one of them probably for life, his teeth forever etched into the skin of the forearm. He'd changed homes right after that –

Had there ever been a home with a woman with long black hair and green eyes slit like a cat's (not like a snake's she detested snakes) with skin bronzed though not nearly as dark as his, a woman who danced…?

He yowled as the first arrow hit his right shoulder, but didn't think to stop so he kept going up. Ilithaine was staring down at him, nocking, firing, and he just barely threw himself away from the next one before continuing his ascent. Then another one hit his right arm and he screamed again, "Fuck you and _die_ fucking archer _–_ "

He'd never learned archery, he remembered. Why not?

 _Because no archery for_ her. _Only Merytheal had archery, plenty of archery for the interested which he was not, so not Merytheal, some other_ her. _What other her, with no bow or arrow?_

He dodged another arrow and hoisted himself over the edge of the flat roof, flipping to his feet, drawing his sword with his left hand.

_Don't hesitate!_

Ilithaine hesitated, hesitated the barest second before flinging his bow away and drawing the sword at his own belt, barely parried Tarlyn's strike. Tarlyn realized then how tall Ilithaine was, at least in comparison; he could probably fit his head underneath Ilithaine's chin if he tried.

Instead he tried to strike off Ilithaine's head and realized how unlikely that would be with what he had to work with only after he started the swing. Ilithaine's sword swung up again before his throat to parry with a hiss of metal; together, they disengaged. Ilithaine moved backward, Tarlyn in pursuit.

Merytheal had always wanted to sort out his fighting, pick out the particulars of each movement, each strike. Tarlyn had by then learned to fight in a scramble, biting and grabbing and kicking and he couldn't say how it worked, or what he was thinking while he was doing it, only that he did it and it worked. That was how he'd beaten Isaril, the first time. Isaril had only expected fighting with swords.

Now he scrambled again, sword in hand and in full flight, parrying and slashing, still screaming words he no longer understood himself. Ilithaine's eyes widened and they were down, suddenly, rolling on the concrete of the roof, yet he still felt several feet above it. His sword was out of his hand but so was Ilithaine's and his feet kicked at concrete and Ilithaine's legs, at some point the fletched end of the arrow in his shoulder had snapped off, and he saw with abrupt clarity the neckline of Ilithaine's sweater, the skin above it, and he slammed his head down under Ilithaine's chin, against his collarbone –

_A climber and a biter._

His teeth went in easier than he remembered their ever doing before. Ilithaine gasped and struggled, jerking away. Tarlyn bit him, kept biting him, and his teeth felt so _strange_. They were dripping – Ilithaine's blood? But no, when he swallowed it went down cold and searing, tasted nothing like he remembered of blood.

_Venom. It's your venom._

If his intention had been to tear Ilithaine's throat out, he hadn't succeeded. But there were marks glistening on Ilithaine's throat and Ilithaine wasn't struggling anymore, just lying there under him with eyes wide and glazed, gasping and gasping…

Tarlyn slumped and tumbled off of Ilithaine. He jolted his shoulder and arm when he landed but only hissed slightly as the pain flared briefly and subsided, settling into a rhythm. The sensation of flying remained, though quite clearly he also knew he was sprawled on the concrete beside Ilithaine. He reached with his left hand and found the hilt of a sword; whose he didn't know. He curled his fingers around it and blinked up at the moon; it seemed closer.

_Get up. You have to get up._

But right now he couldn't seem to think of a pressing reason he ought to.

_It's in his arrows, in his fucking arrows, they kill drow when they hit, that's why the little false priestess fell down over a scratch – you can fight it, though, if you just get your fury back, you could fight it if you could put in a bit of fucking effort –_

He could still taste his own venom, maybe that was what was killing him instead of Ilithaine's arrows, he wasn't _supposed_ to start sprouting venom all of a sudden, nobody had told him not to swallow any theoretical venom he might spit out…

_Haven't you learned by now not to leave yourself vulnerable after fights? Lying around like this anyone could happen along and –_

He drew his right hand up to his own throat. Still intact.

_It won't be for long if –_

The pain, distant and diminished, almost seemed to lull him. That suited him. He wanted to sleep. He hoped for no dreams.


	14. Larissa

_Once you've seen all there is to see, once you've taken advantage of what the world has offered you, it's time to bow out with the grace of the Dancing Lady._

\- Excerpt from the suicide note of Lady Nur of Sharess and Shar, 1356 DR

 

**LARISSA**

_(Red kiss, cat's head)_

It was one of the strays that guided her. She saw through the eyes of what seemed like every cat in Waterdeep, but of course most of these cats were far from the action – at least, this particular action, she'd caught glimpses of some interesting scenes, but they weren't the one she was pursuing. This one stray saw Tarlyn running, and it only took a bit of nudging for it to run after, keeping him in sight, while a handful of other cats peered out windows and from behind garbage bins and helped her catch up to the pursuit, her skirt pulled up in one hand and her purse thumping against the other.

She caught up at a motel, dingy in what light was shed by the sign on the roof three stories above.  Two of the letters in the sign had burned out, declaring it the Silver-tar -nn. Through the cat's eyes, she'd seen Tarlyn scramble up the side of the building, but she couldn't see him on the roof.

She surveyed the walls, found the entrance and walked inside and asked, without preamble, "Is there a key to the roof?"

The desk clerk looked at her askance. "Not planning to jump off, are you, miss?"

"Oh, no. Not at all. I'd just kind of like to get the feeling, you know, standing up there. I'll pay."

"Can't do that, miss. There's no rail up there. Insurance."

"Well, all right." A Plan B fell together. "Then could I have a room on the third floor, please? One with a balcony?"

She could, and she got one. She hurried up the flights of stairs, keeping an eye out for any signs of carnage, and then into the motel room. There she walked straight out through the sliding glass doors to the balcony, turned around, and looked back up at the roof. Still no glimpse of Tarlyn, but the roof was flat; he could be further away from the edge.

What if he wasn't up there?

Come to think of it, what was she doing chasing after him? If he'd also seen that nut running around shooting arrows, if he'd chased him here, then she couldn't very well walk up there and count on her self-defense lessons (especially as those lessons hadn't covered nuts with _arrows_ , archery being a rather negligible proportion of the average creep's repertoire).What was she going to do, call the police? Explain to them that she'd been seeing through the eyes of cats?

_Seeing through the eyes of cats._

Damn, any theoretical secret organizations would probably be interested in _that_.

But if Tarlyn was up there, poor jumpy Tarlyn, he might need her. She should at least take a look. See what had become of him.

And how was she going to do that?

Well, cats, she thought, any ideas?

She was greeted at first with feline curiosity but little else. Eventually, though, a door in the back of her head opened. Another pair of cat's eyes peered out.

_I'm not a spider. How do I get up there?_

_Well, dear, let's see what we can do about that…_

Larissa took an experimental step onto the air. Halfway to the roof, she didn't need the stepping to guide her anymore; instead she straight-out flew, straight up and then across, like a cat with wings (a tressym, she remembered, was the word). Maybe the spiked punch was slicking her way, keeping her from losing her mind at the nesting dolls of marvels.

She landed between the two unmoving bodies and fell into a crouch, automatically hiking her skirt clear of the blood blooms. She could make them out very well and was no longer sure if it came of being part elf or being part cat. There was Tarlyn, the rope of his braid outstretched, hand to his neck as if to strangle himself, something gleaming in his open mouth. And then there was… then the other boy was the nut with the bow, probably, maybe, sweet Sune he might be tall but unconscious like this he looked like he was only a little over Tarlyn's age, could it possibly be…

"Possibly. And in this case, you can guess, is."

Apparently neither cat nor elf had seen fit to reveal the hooded woman balanced on the edge of the roof.

"Aren't you nervous up there?" Larissa thought, and said. Maybe the punch slicked the way there, too.

The other woman reached up and adjusted her hood with a milk-pale hand. Larissa saw the glint off her hair, black as her own in this light (and maybe in all lights). "No."

"So. Um." Larissa checked – they were both breathing. "You're saying this is the crazy fuck that shot Sannara?"

"I wasn't, but yes, he did. They should live, by the way. What they carry within them will not let them die so easily."

Larissa tried to laugh. "I'm guessing you don't mean tapeworms. Okay. Mind giving me a hand?"

"With what?"

"With getting them down. I mean, I don't know much about arrows except apparently you're supposed to leave them in until a real doctor can take care of them, despite what TV might tell you, so we'd better get a real doctor, don't you think? Are you a doctor?"

"No."

"Come on, don't you have the key to the roof or something, you have to've gotten up here somehow –"

"How did you?"

"You're telling me you can fly too?"

"No, I'm not."

"You're not being helpful at all, you know."

"No."

"Well, I don't need you anyway," Larissa told her, and reached into her purse. Her phone had stayed nestled among the bills and coins and phone numbers like the hoard of a pygmy dragon. She took it out and flipped it open with especial care because dropping it onto concrete and blood wouldn't do it any good – kept one eye looking out, in case this Mysterious Stranger/Elusive Weirdo did something crazy like try to toss it over the side, because if TV _had_ taught her anything it was you never knew what people like that might do. It was a very cute phone. Larissa had been flattered to receive it.

"There's no need for that, either."

Larissa rolled her eyes. "And whyever not?"

"I've already taken care of it."

"Doesn't look very taken care of to me, gotta say."

At this point she shed some of her mysterious schtick and began using the kind of voice you did with six-year-olds, though not the words. "I expect you wanted to alert the relevant authorities. Legal and medical. As I've told you, they will live. Bringing them to a hospital will only raise uncomfortable questions, which you yourself might like to avoid."

"And what about Sannara? If he's poisoned his arrows or something, they should get a sample of that, right? They've got to figure out what's wrong with her –"

"They will find nothing."

"What?"

"There will be nothing on the arrows that their machines can detect. Nor will there be anything on the arrow that hit the fey'ri's wing – and, as far as they know, no one else."

"What."

"Her coma will be attributed to a sudden shock – a malfunction of the brain. The brain is an impressive instrument, but there are so many things that can go, suddenly, wrong. And they will suppose she scratched herself. It may not have been wise to have so much live steel about."

"What. The."

"No one remembers where, precisely, the arrow came from. The logical conclusion, then, is that it was fired by one of the costumed archers in their midst. It need not have been malicious. Not with so many excitable people in one place."

"What. The. Fuck."

"Of course, the culprit's already fled, and if prudent they've likely destroyed the matching arrows. With so many guests, how will they ever find the right one?"

"What. The. Fucking. Fuck."

"Oh. This friend of yours." A minute shrug. "I expect she, too, will live."

"What. The. Fucking. Fuckety. _Fuck_!"

A swirl of her loose-hanging clothes and the other woman stood directly in front of her. As Larissa jumped upright, a hand caught under her chin and held it. The woman's other hand adjusted her hood, revealed her face. It was a face, framed with unmistakably black hair, that Larissa might have appreciated somewhere else – with its delicate bones and its red mouth and its sloe eyes. They were eyes you could drown in, which wasn't as pleasant as the books meant it to sound. She parted her lips, and she laughed. "Oh, you haven't seen it, have you? You haven't felt it? Too busy with your parties, your endless empty-headed celebration, dancing the night away, it's blended right in, hasn't it…?"

Larissa did see it. She did feel it. In a moment she knew what seemed like everything there was to know. And she knew the gaping nothingnothingnothing –

_"Get off!"_

At least self-defense taught her how to get out of this. She whipped her purse forward like an improvising Loviatari and brought her knee up into what was a sensitive spot for women as well as men. Her knee plowed through the folds of fabric and came up against something satisfying solid. This satisfaction lasted only for a split second before the woman vanished, as if blown away on the wind. Larissa would've liked to think her knee had knocked her into so many bits, but she doubted it was that easy.

The coins that had flown from her purse clattered to a rest. Larissa fell to one knee, uncaring of the blood. She didn't think to put her phone back in – her hands, automata, did it for her.

And then the next guy came flying over the edge of the roof. She snarled at him, "What _now_?"

He raised his hands. No spells emerged from them for the moment. "Pardon?"

"Any more news flashes? Any more 'it's okay I gave everyone amnesia and now I'm gonna eat you?'" She studied him as he approached. "And if it has to happen I guess I'd rather be eaten by the hot chick even if she's also a creepy chick."

"… oh. _Oh_. Shit! Three thunders!" He hurried forward, took a closer look at the two bodies, and cursed again. "Bandages. You have bandages?"

"I have feminine hygiene stuff?"

 "Give."

He used a sanitary napkin to patch a wound on the other boy's throat. "So," said Larissa as she wound another to keep a broken shaft in place in Tarlyn's shoulder, "you know that nut?"

She was almost sorry once she'd said it, looking at that still face. The more she looked at him, the more she looked at Tarlyn, the more familiar they seemed to her – completely out of proportion to the time she'd known them, or been staring at them.

"I do." He sighed. "Amnesia… with whatever she's done, I guess bringing them to a hospital would be even more complicated. We should get them inside for now, at least."

"I got a room." She pointed. "Maybe we could fly them down. I don't think the guy downstairs knows what happened."

He didn't look well at all, and probably not very strong, so he carried Tarlyn, who was undoubtedly the lighter of the two. She hefted the other one, and they got down in short order without jarring anything too badly. There was one queen-sized bed, and they laid them out side by side. He took off his bloody jacket, took a keycard, went down to the lobby, and came back with a first aid kit and a large pair of scissors; apparently the clerk had assumed he was a guest who hadn't checked in on his shift, and asked no questions. They cut off part of Tarlyn's jacket and tunic and shirt, part of the other boy's sweater, and rebandaged the wounds as properly as they could. In this extended process she learned her fellow-flier was Theris and the other boy was Ilithaine.

"They might be able to manage without a hospital," Theris said carefully, obviously prepared to be rebuked. "Their powers might mean they heal faster than normal. I haven't been sick since last Marpenoth, when mine started to manifest."

Larissa guessed that meant he really hadn't been all that healthy, to make that significant. _She_ certainly wouldn't have noticed not-being-sick.

"And these arrows." He passed a hand over the one in Tarlyn's arm without disturbing it. "In the old days they'd call it something like an Arrow of Drow Slaying, I think. Particularly lethal, in this case. But he's taken two of them, and he's still alive."

She shuddered. Until now, she hadn't thought that Sannara might have been _lucky_. Assuming, of course, that Miss Creepy was telling the truth. "They don't work on fey'ri, do they?"

He leaned over, laid hands on their wrists. "They shouldn't. The entity that powers them is… very specialized. Pulses are weak but stable."

"What kind of entity is that?"

"This will probably sound ridiculous."

"I've had a ridiculous night."

He drew in a breath. "Those of us I've met all believe that the gods are starting to return, and are acting through us."

She sat on the side of the bed, watching Tarlyn keep breathing. "Go on."

"From the evidence, I believe I've been empowered by the god of vengeance. Assuran, or Hoar to some, the Lord of Three Thunders. Ilithaine, on the other hand, has had to deal with the elven god Shevarash."

She tucked her hair back behind her ear; maybe she wanted to show him how it was pointed. "I… kind of remember that one," she said, only because she remembered Dare and Marteil talking about it just before everything went off-kilter.

"These days he's very obscure. He's a god of hatred of the drow, you see, his revenge is taken particularly on drow. His ultimate goal was to wipe them off Faerun, and you can see how that might cause a problem in today's climate."

"Definitely see that."

"The last time we spoke, Ilithaine said he wasn't about to go that far. But he was still hellbent on going after the drow gods and their followers. Two nights ago he killed a girl who was dressed as a priestess of the Nameless Banshee. The one in Graverending?"

"Yeah, Graverending, I remember. Is that why he shot Sannara? Because she was dressed up like a priestess of Lolth?"

"Maybe. Or maybe his target was, ah, Tarlyn. Maybe both."

"What kind of god would Tarlyn have? A drow god, I guess, but he seems shyer than I'd think Lolth would be and I'd also think Lolth would be a girl. There's Vhaeraun… but I don't know, that doesn't seem right."

He frowned. "I agree, that doesn't sound quite right. I'm inclined to doubt it's Eilistraee or the Nameless, either. I'll look it up, once I find a computer. I'm not sure who yours would be, either…"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure now." She'd become sure a few seconds ago, all falling together in place. "Sharess."

"I've heard of that somewhere…"

"Goddess of pleasure and cats," she informed him. "You see my eyes?"

"I see."

"They've been like this for a while. And I've actually been borrowing cat's eyes tonight. Seeing through them. When I was chasing Tarlyn and, um, Ilithaine. And I like to have fun and sometimes that fun is sex. And Sharess had a lot to do with Calimshan, and I'm part Calishite through my grandma. And something to do with elves, I'm pretty sure, and I'm half-elven too."

"Would you say you're religious?"

"Not really. I've just picked up things – in my circles, Sharess comes up a lot. Like there's this line of ladies' underwear…"

He coughed and reached hastily to recheck their pulses. "Well, I wouldn't know about that."

"And Miss Creepy? What about her?"

"Her name is Grace Tanthul, and I believe hers is Shar."

"Well, shit."

"I'm starting to think so. Our gods were allies back in the day, but… if nothing else, she's very dangerous."

"Don't have to tell me twice."

Theris finished taking their pulses. "I think they're a little bit stronger." He stood. "I'd better go fetch all those weapons off the roof. Unless you want to."

"No, go ahead. You have a place to stuff them? I don't like the idea of all that lying around where he can grab it again whenever he's feeling homicidal."

"I'll take them home. Pick up more first aid things while I'm there."

Larissa picked up a cardboard triangle on the nightstand. "They have wireless here. You have a laptop you could bring back? Or I've got one, at home."

"I'll look it up while I'm there. And if you trust me with your keys I can bring back stuff for you. A change of clothes and so on."

Her dress was completely ruined, she realized only now.

***

After the door closed behind Theris, who she'd trusted with her keys, she took the time to close the balcony door, draw the curtains closed, and pull up a chair beside the bed. All the lights on, even the one in the bathroom, as if that might chase away what could wait out there.

At the least there were five of them. Her, Theris, Tarlyn, Ilithaine the Genocidal Maniac, and Miss Creepy. What other nasties might be out there, being led around by Bane, say, or Cyric? Or Loviatar – Larissa knew her mainly as a marketing strategy for kinky toys but she understood now that behind that would be something old and deadly.

There was probably something dangerous behind Tarlyn, too. She didn't know much about the drow pantheon, couldn't even name all its members, but over the years she'd picked up that they were a dangerous bunch, too. Even Eilistraee, the Nice One and the Good One (Vhaeraun was the Good One to some, but nobody called him nice), wasn't one to be messed with.

Those odd looks. Maybe the something behind him had known her, or at least what was behind her.

So probably Sharess had known that one, too. And Shevarash? Even with what little she knew she couldn't imagine them going clubbing together.

Tarlyn groaned low in his throat. His hand twitched open and closed. The broken arrow in his shoulder slid out past the bandage and landed on the quilt without ceremony. As she watched, the same happened to the one on his arm.

She picked up the arrows and laid them on the nightstand for now, noting the smears of blood drying on the quilt. What would Housekeeping think of that? Of all _this_? She'd have to put up a Do Not Disturb sign… she laughed, uneasy, and leaned over to peel back the stained shoulder bandage. Beneath it, his skin seemed entirely unbroken. There was a bright side, after all.

Tarlyn groaned again, his head turning. Larissa let go of the bandage, adjusted her angle of lean, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. _Be happy_ , she thought, trying to get the concept to sidle along from her head to his. Shouldn't Sharess be good at that? Making people happy? Maybe, at least, he could be happy while he dreamed.


	15. Kiira

_JEZZ THE LAME: Malvag and his crazy plan. Kill Corellon, kill Eilistraee, do it by pulling High Magic out his ass. Said no good could come of it. I've… I've never before wished so badly to be wrong._

\- Excerpt from _Exit the Masked Lord_ , by Tluth Eilsana, 2542 DR

 

**KIIRA**

_(Shooting star)_

_4 Mirtul_

That was one of the good things about being in an in-between year with no job or Volunteer Commitment – they could go haring off to Waterdeep that very morning, taking just enough time to pack and let the parents know and, reminded by Veldrin, to call the museum and let _them_ know. Kiira told his parents he had a hankering to see the moonblade and other sights, and Veldrin was going with him so don't worry! He didn't bother to pack all that much, either – if he was missing something he could buy it when he got there.

Veldrin packed a lot more, which probably included an assortment of hats. His hair had stopped falling out at some point last night – now it changed colors without an intermission of baldness, and he didn't want to advertise that either even if it was less embarrassing and messy. He wore sunglasses for his eyes, and it did look like a sunglasses kind of day. Maybe Kiira would buy some later.

They transferred from the shuttle to the train at the edge of High Forest at eight in the morning. It was scheduled to arrive at Waterdeep's Central Station at about three. As it pulled out and started speeding up, Veldrin produced a fat hardcover. Kiira looked at him, looked down at his backpack and laptop bag with half-charged laptop, checked the power on his nearly-dead H-Shell, and realized that he might have miscalculated. Fortunately, Veldrin was prepared. Without even looking up he pointed at a bag that turned out to hold a comic collection and a play called _Exit the Masked Lord_ and a biography of someone called Siora of Eryndlyn (can't win 'em all), _and_ a couple of sandwiches and candy bars and bottles of soda for lunch.

The comic was a weird indie miniseries he remembered giving Veldrin for his forty-ninth nameday Midwinter before last. He hadn't actually read it before now, but it was called _Vhaeraun, God of Superheroes_ and who could pass that up? There wasn't as much superheroing as he'd have liked. Mostly there was a lot of philosophy and brooding and a really confusing ending.

 _Exit the Masked Lord_ was pretty weird too, but at least it was funny. It was set back in the day before the gods bailed, in the time Assimilationism got started, Based On A True Story. It was supposed to be like if they'd had documentaries back then, and this was a documentary about how Vhaeraun might or might not've died when he tried to kill Eilistraee. There were fake interviews and all that with people like Qilué Veladorn and Jezz the Lame. By the end of it, even with all the funny, Kiira wanted to give a bunch of dead people a hug. Other dead people he wanted to march up to and shake and tell them what jerks they were being. Or had been.

Then the biography, punctuated by lunch (Veldrin knew him well; both the candy bars were for him). Siora turned out to be a drow guy who lived in the Vhaeraunite quarter of the Underdark city of Eryndlyn back before the gods bailed (Kiira was sensing a theme). He had a lot of health issues, asthma and stuff like that, so he was really happy to be a Vhaeraunite because the Lolthians would've killed him as a kid before he could write all his poetry. He wrote a lot of poetry, with piles of diaries and essays on the side. Some of it was poetry about other guys. Apparently he thought that guys should only get with other guys because when a drow girl and a drow guy got together the girl always had the power and that was always something between them. Kiira thought thinking that way was pretty depressing. But from the pieces of poems they translated, Kiira got the feeling that he really loved at least one of those other guys, even if he never used the actual word.

The seats in front of and behind them were empty. "Veldrin?"

"Yeah?"

"You think all this has something to do with Vhaeraun?"

"That's a reasonable conclusion, with the eyes and everything."

Yeah – all the reading reminded him that Vhaeraun's eyes and hair were supposed to change color too, according to what he felt. That was why the Auzkovyns thought Veldrin's eyes were lucky. It made sense once you put it together. What Kiira didn't get was why it was like Vhaeraun only had four kinds of feeling. Didn't he ever get scared, or sad, or…?

"What I don't understand," said Veldrin, and he probably had green eyes under the sunglasses, "is why Vhaeraun would take an interest in me. I'm not exactly observant. I don't sit the Embrace. I don't even make a Midwinter pledge."

"Well, you do have a lot of stuff about him and him being awesome. And who wants to sit around meditating on their _nameday_? I think he'd make an exception for that."

Veldrin shrugged. "The Vhaeraunite movement was the wellspring of first-growth masculism." Masculism was one of Veldrin's issues, one of the things he went volunteering for. Apparently it was very important to the Future Of Drow Society. "I'd respect it for that alone. But actual faith? No."

"Maybe he wants you to get some faith." Kiira thought that if he had to get faith, he'd like to go for Erevan Ilesere. That sounded most fun. He'd loved the storybooks when he was a kid, him and best buddy Avachel running around the planes having adventures.

"Maybe."

The train rumbled on. Two seats behind them, a baby started to cry.

"Veldrin?"

"Yeah?"

"What did you see last night? If it's okay to ask."

"It's okay." Veldrin looked out the window. "This time, I was looking over the shoulder of an Assimilationist. He lives in Waterdeep, too. His name was Houndaer Vrinn. He went by Dare. He had a girlfriend who liked to dress up as a priestess of Lolth, and they went to costume parties together."

"I guess Ilithaine wouldn't take that well."

"I don't think he did. Because after the party, when everyone was going outside, someone shot into the crowd. With a bow and arrow."

" _Someone's_ keeping it old school."

"The arrow hit a fey'ri, but it nicked his girlfriend's face, and she collapsed. When I woke up, they were in the hospital. He was at her bedside. _She_ – she wouldn't wake up."

"Holy shit."

"Holy is probably right. I saw the arrow when it was in the fey'ri. It had black fletching. That reminded me of something, and I looked it up. As long as gods are getting mixed up in this… I found one that matched. Shevarash."

"Shevarash…? Oh, Seldarine save us. Seldarine except for him." Shevarash: maybe once he'd been the God of Helping Keep the Evil Drow from Killing Us All, but by now he was God of Seldarine-Sanctioned Hate Crime. "Guess it _might_ be a copycat, but… you remember Ilithaine and the other guy. _They_ had powers. So that's why you're going to Waterdeep, to catch this guy before he shoots someone else?"

Veldrin kept staring at the passing greenery. "I have to do _something_. And that reminds me. There were two other people at the party, in that crowd. After the shooting, they ran after him."

"Hey, so maybe they've already taken care of it."

"They gave me a feeling." He fished blindly in his pants pocket, drew out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to Kiira, who began to read.

 

> _LARISSA FARIHA (VESPER). Green cat eyes (natural?). Half-elf. Origins: Calimshan, Aglarond. Long black hair. WD resident, actress. Red dress. Friends w/Sannara, Dare through her. Likes to dance. Doesn't like snakes._
> 
> _TARLYN ARGITH. Drow, doesn't speak the language. Adopted? Then why drow surname? Long hair, braided. Bladesinger tael (!). From Rhyman, visiting w/class (shot fey'ri also in class). The "token drow." Red jacket, blue tunic, crescent moon dec. in hair. Sword: real. Seems to know LF but looks like she doesn't know him. LOUD when he screams. Otherwise mostly quiet._

 

He looked up. "We can probably look her up in the phone book, at least. You think they have powers too? With the cat eyes and everything?"

"Maybe." He didn't seem to much like the idea. Which didn't make sense, because that would make it more likely that Ilithaine hadn't just shot them dead with his magic arrows.

***

A while later Veldrin put down his book and strolled off into Reverie. A while after that Kiira took the opportunity to sneak a peek at the book; sadly, it was all in Drow. He was getting pretty good at the sign language, but the written stuff – even the Assimilationist dialect – was still beyond him. Probably another Vhaeraun thing. He flipped through and some of the pages had words shaped like poems. He slipped it back, very careful, and saw that under the cap Veldrin's hair was white again. Maybe it had been white for a while before – he was _used_ to Veldrin having white hair.

The illusion that everything had fallen back to status quo broke when he leaned over and plucked off the sunglasses. Veldrin's eyes were open in his Reverie, and they weren't the usual red – they were a stark and incredibly disturbing white. The rest of his face had moved, too, and Kiira knew suddenly: this was what Vhaeraun looked like when he was terrified.

First thing he could think of: he put a hand over Veldrin's left shoulder and gave him a shake. Veldrin gasped and blinked fast. The white went away in a wash of green. He shook his head, clearing out the rest of it, and looked at Kiira.

Kiira swallowed. "See anything else? Like Ilithaine being crazy?"

"Nothing like that."

"Um." He handed the sunglasses back. "Would you be okay with telling me what?"  Reverie was supposed to tell you true things, Kiira knew. That wasn't as true as it used to be, but it was true enough to make him wonder when Veldrin had ever been so scared in his life.

Veldrin looked out the window again, then back at him as he put the sunglasses back on. It was his turn to swallow. Then he leaned close and whispered, "I dream that someone's killing me."

Kiira matched him gulp for gulp. "I think I dreamed that too. Except… except you were already dead."

Veldrin's eyes closed. " _Fuck_."

"That was in the dream where I met Princess Seniadra, I tell you about that dream?"

"You told me. I remember. You asked if I was in one piece. I take it there I wasn't."

"Right. You weren't. No, wait, wait, come to think of it, she said it wasn't you. She said it was history. Which means… I guess it was Vhaeraun, then. But he looked an awful lot like you, all the same."

"Huh." Veldrin's eyes opened and flickered upward. "If that's true, _there's_ a bunch of theological theories shot down."

Kiira nodded sagely and silently thanked _Exit the Masked Lord_ for letting him know what that meant.

***

They crossed Central Station trailing luggage and hailed a taxi to their hotel. Kiira didn't know they'd had a hotel waiting for them– Veldrin had made the reservations at some point. A few minutes settling in, then they went back down and boarded the express bus to the Waterdeep Museum of History.  They had some fun wandering around browsing the exhibits. Kiira got a preview of the moonblade, got a kick out of reading everything they said about his family. Last time he'd been here, he'd been too short to read half of it.

There'd been a provision: every member of the Craulnober family was entitled to try drawing the dormant moonblade. If it woke up, they could take it with them. He remembered kiddie-him smudging the glass with his hands, wondering what new power he'd give it when it was his – because of course it would be his, someday.

Near closing time, they went to the information desk where they were supposed to wait. A couple minutes after closing they were met by a human woman who called him "Mr. Craulnober" and gave them waivers to sign – "just a formality." A couple of other moon elves with museum nametags, one of them half-human, were hanging around to spectate.

And there was the moonblade, which the woman – Ms. Brownmantle her name was – laid out carefully on a table in the atrium. It was in the fancy scabbard now, for the ceremony. Not much pomp aside from that; that would just be embarrassing if the blade stayed dormant like it did for the past few centuries.

"Can Veldrin hold it, after I'm done?" Because Kiira could see him stare even if he was trying not to.

"I don't see why not," said Ms. Brownmantle.

"All right then." He stood and approached the table. "Here goes."

The scabbard rested in his right hand, the hilt gripped in his left. He brushed his fingers over the slumbering moonstone. He turned around to face his audience and give them a smile. The half-human leaned forward, his chin on his palm and his elbow on his knee. Veldrin had pushed the sunglasses up on his forehead, over the top of his cap. His eyes were definitely green. Better than red. He breathed deep, because he thought he ought to, and he pulled.

The blade began to slide out. The moonstone blazed to life.


	16. Tarlyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains excerpts from _Demihuman Deities_ , in italics, because it's better at write-ups than I am.

_We seek Material-based causes of these shifts in myth, rather than dismissing them as the doings of the gods. For example, if you asked about the origin of the cult of Selvetarm in drow culture, for centuries the answer – from educated folk – would have been "Vhaeraun impregnated Zandilar the Dancer."_

\- Tinua Xiloscient, _Skeptical Theology_ , 2342 DR

 

**TARLYN**

_(Spider, sword, mace)_

_4 Mirtul_

This was what he dreamed:

Corellon Larethian turned his face from him. Sehanine Moonbow withdrew into the mist. Hanali Celanil covered her eyes, his hideous form offending her. Shevarash's lip twitched as if he might smirk, because he'd been right all along about bad blood and blood telling. Eilistraee said "Repay violence with swift violence," and her sword whistled downward.

And why, Tarlyn thought, was he dreaming that the gods would bother to dismiss him?

And there he stood with his severed head in his hands, watching them walk away. A woman's voice drifted back to him, light and cold. "Sacrifices have to be made," she said. "Might as well sacrifice that one. It's a mercy, really."

Spiders chittered and carried him up. Another woman, low and lazy: "A trophy for your victory?" And he flew, no, he fell.

_Don't leave me. Please. I'm sorry I was weak, I'm sorry I was stupid, but please don't leave me here with_ her _!_

There had been hope after all, after all those centuries (what centuries?). A small hope (hope for what?). So small he only realized it had been there when it, too, was dashed (how?) and the pathetic spark went out for good.

Quite suddenly ( _with the brush of lips against his forehead_ ) Tarlyn began to dream fiercely of something completely different. He dreamed of a family packed, not too tightly, in one of the big garden houses of Rhyman. A mother who'd toss him in the air and unfailingly catch him as he whooped in delight. A father who'd ruffle his hair and say things like "Good going, tiger" without a hint of sarcasm. An aunt who'd hug him and say "I'm so proud of you, Tarlyn." Except, for some reason, she didn't say Tarlyn. That much made sense. If he had a family like that he'd have a name other than the one he strongly suspected was picked out of an Eryndlyn telephone directory. He'd decided the directory was from Eryndlyn because what he _did_ know was he'd been found at the Rhyman end of the Rhyman-Eryndlyn line, so those would've been closest at hand.

When he began to investigate the grounds of the house further, when he dreamed he chased a stray ball into his grandparents' room, things began to unravel. He couldn't make out his grandparents' faces. He couldn't imagine what they'd be like. Geezers who'd smile at him and bake him cookies? That was just stupid. In fact this whole thing was stupid. He could almost see how the cardboard cutouts were propped up. He'd stopped having dreams like this years ago.

_Centuries ago_ – but that thought was stupid too. He didn't have enough decades let alone centuries for that thought.

He wanted to scream but there was no air.

***

The first thing he said was, dumbly, "You're here."

But Larissa Fariha smiled down at him and squeezed his hand tighter. "That's right. And you're okay. Maybe not all systems go, but... otherwise I would've found Miss Creepy and scratched her godsdamned eyes out."

"Um," was the second thing Tarlyn said. "Okay."

She used her other hand to slap her forehead. "Right, you don't know who Miss Creepy is. But trust me, she's a creeper."

Tarlyn extricated his hand from hers to start trying to sit up. He managed eventually, though it took a while for his brain to settle down from where it whirled inside his skull. When it did, he saw he was in another hotel room with Larissa Fariha and half of his shirt. What was he _doing_ last night?

The next second he remembered and it was even more bizarre than his first impression.

And he saw Ilithaine, lying on a cot at the foot of the too-big bed. He was so tall his feet were hanging off the end. He was frowning with closed eyes. He _should_.

"He gets the cot," said Larissa, "because he's an asshole. But you got him good."

"Um. Thanks. So why is he..." ... _not on a cot in a cell? Even better, why is he not dead, besides the obvious fact that I failed at killing him?_

"He's pretty hard to kill. But then, so are you, and probably so am I, and so's Theris, so it might work out... this'll sound wild, but have you had any odd dreams or anything lately?"

"Yeah." He paused, and added, "Mostly about decapitation."

"Oh," she said. "That... makes a lot of sense. In a kind of disturbing way. I mean, it's not _your_ fault it's disturbing. Decapitation! It's disturbing! I haven't had any I really noticed, but Theris has. And how about strange things _happening_? Like my eyes. They're not contacts."

"I... think I ran up a wall. I could see through spiders. And I bit Ilithaine."

"Right, well, Theris's theory is the gods are coming back and they're hanging around in our heads giving us powers."

This didn't sound nearly as outrageous as it should. "Oh. Huh. Which ones?"

He could guess which one for him, though he didn't want to. How could he not? Spiders, always with the _spiders_. Couldn't even speak the language! Wasn't even a girl! In the end it made no difference. Should've guessed.

"Theris has Hoar – that's a god of revenge. Ilithaine there has Shevarash – you heard of that?" she said, seeing him grimace.

"I've heard of that." Shevarash looking down on him, righteously smug, with a face that could've been Ilithaine's. Older, though, more worn.

He remembered in the diner Ilithaine had said he was from Drannor. Drannor teemed with drow just as much as the rest of Cormanthor (sometimes Tarlyn had fantasized about packing up and running away there, where he could speak the language, where he might be a little less strange; once he'd actually tried, and been stopped at the bus). He wondered how Ilithaine managed to live there without going berserk, drow everywhere. Maybe he hadn't managed, and arrived in Waterdeep fleeing arrest.

"I'm pretty sure I've got Sharess – that's pleasure and cats, which is fine with me as long as nobody expects me to start adopting them. I wouldn't trust myself with a goldfish. Miss Creepy runs around wiping people's memories and she has Shar..."

He waited a few seconds. "What about me?"

"Well." A little throat-clearing cough. "Our best guess is Selvetarm – you heard of that one?"

He frowned even as he thought with relief, not _her_ then.. "I think so. Something to do with Eryndlyn. It's not far from Rhyman. You hear things sometimes."

"Yeah, that makes sense." She grabbed a few sheets of paper from the nightstand and handed them to him. "Maybe this'll help. Or maybe it won't. It gets pretty screwy, pretty sad. But it _does_ have decapitation."

It was printout from a website about pantheons, topped with a brief profile. Selvetarm: The Spider That Waits, the Champion of Lolth, Prince of the Aranea, Lord of the Venomire. So it was still something to do with the Spider Queen of stories to scare bad children and make adults take Reverie with the lights on. A minor power, when he was alive (and that he was dead, had been dead, that was no surprise either). One portfolio: drow warriors (he'd wondered sometimes why it was called a portfolio, as though the gods had gone around toting file folders with ELVES or MAGIC on them, and had never gotten an answer). The list of enemies was long and the list of allies consisted of two names. Lolth, again, and Garagos. He tried to remember who Garagos was. Something shifted in the murk, as if spilled blood swirled in it, but nothing else.

He hit the first screwy part at the end of the second paragraph.

 

_Selvetarm was birthed shortly thereafter when the weakened Zandilar voluntarily merged her essence with that of Bast, creating the goddess now known as Sharess._

 

His head jerked up. Larissa nodded. "Yeah. Feels pretty weird to me, too. I guess that's why... you know, last night, back at the party. I guess he recognized her, or something."

"Guess so."

"How old're you?"

"I'll be thirty in Kythorn."

"Thirty-five on Midsummer. Whoa, I didn't get started _that_ early." Tarlyn heard himself laugh, sharp and unsteady; she echoed it.

"Oh," she added as he returned his gaze to the printout, "the 'naturally cruel and malicious' stuff? Don't pay attention to that. You haven't been cruel at all."

"You haven't known me for twenty-four hours yet," he muttered, his eyes instinctively shifting down the page to find the phrase. "Maybe I'm cruel and malicious nine days out of ten." She laughed again at that.

He read about a period of neutrality, about Eilistraee, about Lolth, about the demon Zanassu and his divine spark, about taking one step up and plummeting into the Abyss. About losing by winning. About taking on more than you could handle. About will, and will being bound. He swallowed hard, skimmed past the part that said _cruel and malicious by nature_ , stuff about Eryndlyn and the aranea etcetera, and of course this wasn't about to tack on a happy ending.

There: Eilistraee again. Cavatina Xarann, Halisstra Melarn, the Crescent Blade. Decapitation. And that was it.

He put it back on the nightstand. "Okay. What now? Besides not killing demons with a lot of essence."

Another small laugh. "Theris has a change of clothes in the bathroom," she said. "They'll be big on you – they're big on him – but your stuff is pretty much wrecked, sorry." She'd changed clothes too – T-shirt and tight jeans. "Or... first we can call your classmates, tell them you're not dead?" She produced a sleek little phone. "They won't remember exactly what happened with the shooting, though. Thanks to Miss Creep."

"I'll start with that."

Merytheal was disappointed. He could tell from the moment he said "It's Tarlyn, I'm okay," and his jury-rigged explanation didn't make it much better. She could certainly understand why he'd gone chasing after the owner of the bow at first, but it was an unfortunate accident that certainly wasn't worth pursuing him all through the night. It was a good thing Miss Fariha had found him before he got too lost. It was reckless, dangerous –

He felt her disappointment in a wave breaking over him. Last year it would've driven him down, lowered his head, _maybe_ pushed him to defend himself. Now he stood and let it soak him without flinching. So Merytheal Starbrook was disappointed in him. Ha! In his head now there lived someone who was utterly incorrigible, someone who had _experts_ disappointed in him. He couldn't be fixed, couldn't be coaxed into virtue by an encouraging smile and an occasional "I'm proud of you," a "I know you can do better." He was cruel and he was malicious. He was so irredeemable that a goddess who might as well carry around a file folder saying REDEMPTION had said "Fuck it, off with his head."

"I wanted to let you know I'm not going back with the rest of you," he found himself saying. "I'll find my own way."

***

They probably thought he was staying in Waterdeep to have (quasi-incestuous) sex with Larissa in a hotel room, but he couldn't bring himself to care and there was only a little bit of argument (maybe he'd wanted her to argue harder). Isaril would come to the ("Silverstar Inn," Larissa whispered) Silverstar Inn with his luggage. Say thanks in advance to Isaril for me. Yes, I have the money for a ticket home, no I'll be sure not to spend it. Say hi to Marteil for me, and say get well soon. Yes, I'll visit him in the hospital, thanks for telling me which one, but I'm not feeling so hot myself right now. Probably that bug from Evermeet acting up again. Running around all night couldn't have helped. Thank you. Goodbye.

"Will they tell your folks?"

Tarlyn internally debated how much to put in words as he started getting out of bed. "They'll call Ms. Calaudra." He'd been at Ms. Calaudra's house for a record-setting number of years now.

"She's... not your mom, I guess."

"No. Foster carer." On his feet, braced against the nightstand.

She took hold of his elbow, giving him just that extra bit of steadiness. "That's too bad. You're going on thirty and nobody ever adopted you? Sorry, that sounds horrible, but..."

"Once. Before I can remember. It didn't work out so well."

Halfway across the room, something occurred to him. Nobody else in here, and the light beneath the bathroom door was out. He still lowered his voice. "Can we trust Theris?"

"Well, I know he used to work with Ilithaine and Miss Creepy, but I get the impression he broke it off once they started getting extreme." Tarlyn thought of the human man who'd been with Ilithaine in the diner. "And he helped patch you up. So I'm pretty sure we can trust him."  

***

In the bathroom he slumped on the counter in front of the mirror and stared in search of something different (though he'd seen nothing different in the days before, so why should it start now?). His own face. His own eyes. His battered tattered clothes. His own hair, with clumps of blood dried in the braid.

He could close his eyes and glimpse long-dead people who'd bloodied their braids deliberately.

He smiled too wide at his reflection. "Hi there," he half-whispered, half-mouthed. "Well, we got him good even if we didn't finish the job. Are you comfy?"

Pause.

"Vhaeraun was a shit dad, wasn't he? Sorry I couldn't get you a better one." Tarlyn reached and untied the stained blue ribbon. Blood grimed the details of the silver crescent. He held it up to the mirror and dropped it in the sink. "On the bright side, if I don't have grandmothers then I can't have one who's evil. That's logic."

Pause.

"Talk to you later," said Tarlyn, and turned around to undress.

***

Larissa hadn't been joking – he swam in Theris's sweatshirt and sweatpants. He liked the dark red of the sweatshirt. Selvetarm had landed someone who even had the same favorite color. He wondered if Selvetarm had any opinion on blue. The shorts had still been in the plastic pack of three with the smiling model, so they definitely weren't Theris's. They were one size off, but he could deal.

His hair tie was a mess too, so he left the bathroom with his hair down. He was taking a moment in the doorway to be sure he had his balance when he heard Larissa speaking.

"Ms. Starbrook? It's Larissa Fariha. Yeah. About Tarlyn. I just wanted to say it's not his fault he didn't let you know sooner... no, he was a lot sicker than he let on.  If he went on much longer he was going to fall over in the street. I didn't think he was sick at first, I thought he was drunk. Yeah, that was stupid of me, he didn't go _near_ the punch. And I told him I'd take care of everything, he must've thought I'd call you, but I didn't – I was freaked out about Sannara and everything and I just didn't think of it until, well, _now_..."

When he finally stepped into view after she finished speaking and hung up, it seemed to take a moment for her to realize a stranger hadn't inexplicably emerged. "You have a lot more hair than it looks like," she said.

"Guess so." The quilt was off the bed and nowhere to be seen. The sheets beneath were unstained, so he fell back in and pulled one over him. "Thanks for... thanks for calling."

"It's nothing," said Larissa. "It's true in every way that counts. Maybe I _should've_ let them know sooner – maybe not while you still had arrows sticking out of you – but I really didn't think of it in the middle of everything else. We have lunch coming up. Want anything in particular?"

***

Larissa called Theris with their lunch requests. Isaril arrived with his duffel and backpack before he did. Tarlyn was ever so slightly concerned now about not making things look worse than they already did, so he kept Isaril talking in the doorway with Larissa and Ilithaine well out of sight. He had to lean on the doorframe. Isaril wished him swift recovery.

"Merytheal's worried," he said after that.

Tarlyn nodded.

"It's not like you." _You should have apologized on the phone. You should be crawling back by now._

That thought, that was a spiteful one, he could realize, unfair, colored by something that echoed in the seething murk that he grew gradually aware of as all Selvetarm had brought with him, with boundaries he could almost point at. Merytheal had never wanted him to crawl.

Tarlyn shrugged. "I've got a lot of stuff I haven't been dealing with. Last night showed me that. I want space to think."

After he finally left, Tarlyn finished drying his hair and used one of the spare hair ties in the front pocket of his backpack for his braid. He didn't like leaving his hair loose too long; the way he looked with it spilling over his shoulders and down his back unsettled him.

***

Theris arrived with Tarlyn's sword and bags of takeout. His faint suspicion was confirmed: Theris was the man called Frost (put together he was Theris Frost), tall and gaunt, with the black curls and the hollow laugh.

They were nearly done with lunch when Ilithaine began to stir. Tarlyn had seated himself on the bed and watched those eyes open with his sword close at hand. He wasn't sure he'd get to use it, especially since Theris had apparently confiscated Ilithaine's sword along with the bow and arrows. He battled the temptation of drawing it anyway, and also battled the pettier temptation to empty the rest of the carton of curry over his face.

Theris stood and approached with long steps. "Rilashan," he said, placing a hand on his forehead. "Shevarash. Can you hear me?"

"Theris," he mumbled. He shouldn't sound so disoriented, so fuzzy around the edges, he _shouldn't_. Still wearing his cut-open sweater, crusted with blood. "What...?"

"You murdered Rauva Kenafin," Theris pronounced, enacting some rite. "You grievously injured Marteil Floshin and Alisannara Soldou. You attempted to murder Tarlyn Argith. I accuse you of this. May justice be done."

They remained a frozen tableau for moments during which Larissa and Tarlyn looked on in silence. Then something seemed to jump between them – a spark, a surge – and Theris jerked back, hissing profanity through his teeth. Ilithaine shot upright, though he couldn't keep it up for long at all.

"I thought you understood!"

"I thought so too," said Theris. He sounded cold but his hand was shaking.

Ilithaine's feverish wide eyes flickered to Tarlyn and back. "Why does _he_ have a sword!" The way he shouted it, it wasn't a question. His voice dropped with the next sentence, low and ferocious. The back of Tarlyn's neck prickled. He had trouble drawing a clear line between Ilithaine's voice in the diner and Ilithaine's voice now. "You'll sit there until it's too late then sweep it up saying isn't it sad. How can you not see? It's already happened, it'll happen again –"

He wanted to scream, just what he wouldn't have known until it came out of his mouth, but Larissa beat him to it. She lunged halfway onto the cot; her hands scrabbled about his neck and then hauled him back up by his shoulders to look straight into her face. " _Shut up_!"

Theris might have gotten things going, but by now it had escaped him entirely. He stood, back against the wall, looking at his hand as it turned over and back. Tarlyn fingered the hilt of his sword, ready to pull it free.

"My friend is in a coma." And her voice was true ferocity. "One of my _best_ friends. And that other girl's dead. Now listen up, you... you genocidal little shit, nobody's going to let you get away with that anymore. People aren't going to say 'it's just drow' anymore. These days when you go around shooting people who didn't do anything wrong they call it _murder_."

Another succession of silent moments. Larissa with one knee on the cot between Ilithaine's legs. Ilithaine staring at her. Ilithaine's mouth opening again. Ilithaine speaking. " _Zandilar_?"

One, two... Larissa said, "What about it?"

"Zandilar... I had no intention of harming your friends." The cadence of his voice seemed to have shifted again. "I only meant to put an end to Selvetarm's puppet, but at the last moment there was a disturbance..."

It really is him in here, thought Tarlyn, if you can trust the word of an attempted genocider.

"Which I'm pretty sure I caused," said Larissa. "When I saw you aiming at us. And around we go. But that's beside the point."

"Zandilar, surely _you_ should understand." He jerked his head toward Theris. " _He's_ not of the People, he _can't_ know, not truly, but you're–"

"I can't believe this shit! If you're that fanatical about everything exactly the same as more than a thousand years ago, let me remind you. If I have Zandilar and you have Shevarash and he hasSelvetarm, you know what that means? That means I'm almost his godsdamned _mother_."

Tarlyn heard his own breath rush in. His grip on the sword tightened, loosened.

"And I might not know much about mothering, apparently it turned out pretty crappily last time around, but there's one thing I do know, and that's if I'm a mother and if you hurt my kid, then _I will fucking end you._ Then I'll go to the zoo and _throw what's left to the tigers_."

Blood rushed. His pulse thumped at his throat. He thought, did she really just say that? Did she really say that about _me_? It was all ifs and almosts...

"And even if it's just me, just plain Larissa, maybe I'm not serious, maybe I'm not responsible, but I wouldn't just sit back and watch _anyone_ get hurt for terrible reasons. _Do you get that_?"

One two three four five six... Ilithaine threw back his head and screamed. Horror and grief so thick that one could almost see it, inhale it. Something in his head, maybe Selvetarm, asked, _Was this how he screamed after the Dark Court?_ Larissa dropped him back onto the cot, scrambled off and away; she was as taken aback as he was. Theris stood with his hands poised an inch apart, palms facing.

Ilithaine screamed again, shorter this time; he'd spent most of his breath on the first and it was a wonder there'd been any left. He scrabbled on the cot and fell off with a thump, scrambled to his feet with his legs tangling and fixed them with another wide-eyed stare as he staggered in one direction and another without getting much of anywhere. He panted, regaining enough air to speak. "It's true. It's true! He won't listen but it's true. We're murderers. Kren Auzkovyn and Rauva Kenafin and –"

"Not Auzkovyn," Theris interjected. "Auzkovyn was guilty." There was a story there that Tarlyn would have to ask about later.

"You!" Ilithaine jabbed a finger at Tarlyn. "You – I remember how you were staring. Staring like you wanted to kill me. But the difference is – you didn't _do it_!" His laugh was abrupt and jagged at the edges. "You didn't start it. Youkept your head this time. I salute you!" His head jerked to the side so that he faced none of them and his voice climbed into another scream. "Get out get out _out_!"

Larissa had backed away until she was brought up short by a chair at her back. Theris was still standing but looked like he wanted to sink to the floor. Tarlyn stayed where he was as Ilithaine finished whatever had been going on in his head and looked back toward him and Larissa.

"He won't believe it. Just another drow trick, he says. And he says, Zandilar is too sentimental, he's doing it for her own good. Shut up, shut _up_. I'm sorry for what I did, I _am_ , but _he_ isn't. You know there was a girl in my Reverie? Two girls. And one of them told me she was coming for what I did to... to Rauva Kenafin, she was going to kill me. Revenge. Fine with me! Go ahead and do that! Form a line, folks, single file!"

Tarlyn wanted to say something like _Happy to oblige, me first_. It waited ready on his tongue.

Ilithaine spread his arms and stumbled two steps forward. "He's... _big_. So big. He's older than me and deeper than me and every other second I think he's just about to wash me away. Broken little bits that get lost when there's so _much_ of everything everything else..."

Tarlyn could see it. Tarlyn could feel it, or something much like it. Reaching out to catch something that suddenly twisted and caught him in turn. And he was very small beside it, inside it. The roar of sheer hatred drowning out thought and permeating it simultaneously, the bitter whispers that infiltrated thought. Nothing you could strike down and drive away, once you'd unknowingly invited it in. How to lose by winning: an object lesson.

_That was bad enough, but once he woke from it... that was when he learned what could be worse. It was a lesson to be learned many times for many years._

When he woke, he was standing in front of Rilashan Ilithaine, had reached up and clapped a hand onto his shoulder and was holding it fast. Ilithaine's eyes, in turn, caught his own and held them fast also. Ilithaine was still far taller but he wasn't _looking down_ the same way.

"I know something about how it feels," he said, looking up. He said _I_ because it might've been Selvetarm's to start with but now it was his. "I don't know what to _do_ about it, but... I know."

Ilithaine looked down on him. He reached out in turn. His left hand on Tarlyn's right shoulder, where less than twenty-four hours ago his arrow had struck. "Yeah," he breathed. His eyes were hazel. "Yeah, I think so. And you're okay, or you wouldn't have _told_ me. I'm the menace here."

It was true. Part of him still seethed and demanded to know why he hadn't drawn his sword yet, told him there was still a chance to draw a red smile, but that wasn't the part in charge. "You'd better sit down," said Tarlyn, and helped him do that, and another part of him tried to piece together what exactly had just happened.


	17. Ariel

_okay like some people share beds_

_some people share ice cream sundaes_

_these two?_

_They shared a Chosen One._

\- Weave blogger "Myths Revamped," "Mystra and Eilistraee are totes BFFs," 2594 DR

 

**ARIEL**

_(Seven stars)_

_5 Mirtul_

"Something has to happen soon," Mayae had said two days ago, in the middle of last-minute exam cramming. "I can feel it." And now instead of going home like most of their bags and boxes, they were sitting in the coffee shop across from Gate 21 of Aerasumé Silverymoon Airport, waiting for Flight 108 to Waterdeep International, chasing some kind of mystical vision Mayae had received the very night she'd made her prediction. Though given all the things that had already happened lately, maybe it was an educated guess that something else would come along shortly.

What she needed, Ariel thought as she drank her coffee and browsed the god-guide she'd found online and downloaded onto her handheld, was a spellbook.

Over the last tenday, the spellfire had settled down. With some more experiments in her free time she'd started to mold things to her specifications. Basic things – what they would've called cantrips back in the day. She could make the door of their room open by itself as she walked up to it. She could make spots of light dance in her palm like Mayae's mystery motes. If she concentrated, she could see something flickering around her gloves and Mayae's moonstone ring, which she figured had to be magic. But she'd had to throw all this together from scratch, yanking out handfuls of magic (in spellfire form, it felt like it could've set the room ablaze about ten times over) and trying to push it into shape even as it ran through her figurative fingers, leaving her dizzy and tired after a while. She doubted this method was very efficient. On the other hand, the wizards of Faerun had spent centuries learning how to economize. She could study their spells and get an idea of the best way to go about it.

Of course the problem was that every spellbook in the world was at least a thousand years old, therefore a historical artifact, therefore locked up in places that were generally inaccessible to a teenage girl who'd only just finished her freshman year and wanted to actually touch it and turn the pages. She didn't think "Let me in! Mystra demands it!" was going to go over well, and also doubted that flinging around spellfire was the best idea even if it would indisputably prove her credentials. She'd asked Mayae if Princess Seniadra happened to have one on hand, and Mayae said she'd asked her to look into it.

"But it'll be in Elven," Mayae had said.

"It says in this book over here that magic is a universal language. It's worth a shot."

Since she couldn't practice with so many people around, she was taking the time to read up on who else they might have to deal with. As for who they'd already dealt with, Seniadra's was easy – with the moon theme and being an elf and not being a drow, the number one option was Sehanine Moonbow. Mayae concurred; Ariel wasn't sure if she'd informed Seniadra of their conclusions.

Then there was Mayae's online friend from High Forest. Lankieral Craulnober, Kiira for short. He'd told her about meeting Princess Seniadra in a dream, so he was probably one of them too. To top it off there was his last name – like Shessair and Veladorn, laden with mythological-historical significance. The connection wasn't quite as obvious, but after considering his personality and his favorite color their educated guess was Erevan Ilesere. According to the god-guide, he'd been one of Eilistraee's close buddies. Maybe some kind of divine magnetism or divine nudging was drawing them together.

And Mayae had seen a couple more people in her vision that she wanted to investigate – she had a feeling. A bad feeling, with one of them. A drow guy who'd charged off screaming and was probably employed by one of their nastier gods.

 _When I think back,_ she'd said, _I remember I had a feeling like that the first time I saw Kiira in a photo – the first time I saw_ you _– but this is different. This time he makes me uneasy. Not afraid, but… apprehensive. Like I've seen him before, but it didn't go well. It didn't go well at all._

So they had two more names to look into. And then there was whoever shot that arrow. _He_ wouldn't be good news either.

Ariel'd gone through the heavy-hitters first – Shar, Cyric, Lolth. Now she was reading up on the dysfunctional clusterfuck that was the drow pantheon. Not to say there weren't multiple other dysfunctionalities scattered through the other pantheons. It was the kind of thing that made you glad to be an only child.

"Oh," said Mayae, across the table. " _Oh._ Ariel?" Ariel looked up.

She'd set up her weavebook, the one made to tote out to coffee shops; they could see each other over the tiny screen without difficulty even before Mayae lowered the lid to lean over it. "I just checked my email. Kiira's in Waterdeep right now. Last night he went to the history museum to draw his family moonblade…"

"And it lit up?"

"Yes, that's just what happened! He sent photographs." Mayae pulled the lid back up and turned the weavebook around.

And there stood Kiira – black-haired and green-eyed, grinning madly as he hefted the shining blade. Ariel put a finger on the touchpad and scrolled down. A close-up, then, on the blade's blazing moonstone. Finally, a group shot: Kiira at the center, still grinning with the moonblade in hand, surrounded by the other participants in the little ceremony, all of whom looked entirely poleaxed by recent developments. Ariel's eye was drawn to the drow standing at Kiira's left. He was taller than anyone else in the photo, maybe as tall as her or Mayae, and his eyes were as green as Kiira's. "Good for him," Ariel said at last. "And it's a good sign for us too, isn't it?"

"Yes, I think so… well, mostly. Because… well… you see the drow next to him, in the last one?"

"Uh huh."

"It's a friend of Kiira's. He's mentioned him before, his name is Veldrin Auzkovyn. But when I saw him there I got a chill. It was like the one I got with the other."

Ariel mashed the button to turn the virtual pages of the guide backward. One disadvantage of going digital was it wasn't so simple to just flip around. "Green eyes, green eyes… so you think he might be working for, whatshisface, Vhaeraun?"

"I'm afraid so."

"So that's another stop to make, then? Touch base with Kiira, scope out this guy for evil godness?" If Kiira was one of them, though, Ariel wondered why he wouldn't have noticed the evil godness already.

 "But what would _he_ be doing in Waterdeep…? Oh _no_. Houndaer Vrinn."

"That was the guy you dreamed about, right?"

"Right. I… wasn't telling the complete truth when I said he was one of Eilistraee's. He's an Assimilationist. It's complicated, but it essentially means he worships Vhaeraun as well. And if I'm not the only one who's been having these visions then maybe…"

"Then maybe he got wind of the Vrinn guy too? Divine tug-of-war time? That can't be pretty." She looked down at where her rapid button-pushing had taken her, right in the middle of the entry. "But at least we know you and Eili can handle him. You've done it before. And you can handle that headcase with the arrows, too, whoever he is. Or if you can't, I bet _I_ can. Just hoping I don't burn down Waterdeep doing it."


	18. Ricky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quoting from canon again. In this case, the chapter quote comes from the novel Prince of Lies. Also there is an awful joke that alludes to rape.

_  
In the squalor of Zhentil Keep's slums, the man-who-would-be-a-god took on the shell of mortality for the first time. His mother, a beautiful bard with a mind as quick as Oghma's, had foreseen her child's greatness in a dream._

\- Excerpt from the Candlekeep _Cyrinishad_

**RICKY**

_(Black sun, jawless skull)_

_5 Mirtul_

To be honest, Ricky hadn't been expecting the Rhymanthiin Museum and Visitors Center to be all that interesting. He'd just gone in with Aelrindel because he could really use a soda and also the jakes. The problem with taking the scenic route was that Aelrindel had a different idea of what was scenic and was also the one who owned the car. Though some of the ruins they drove by looked like they'd been badass, once, and Boareskyr Bridge had been fun.

But right now he was at the beginning of the chronologically-ordered museum, in the middle of reading about something called the Crown Wars. That was supposed to've been more than ten thousand years ago. The elves who'd lived on the High Moor before it was the High Moor got blasted to bits with super-magic by another bunch of elves. A whole godsdamned country. They called it the Dark Disaster. The same bunch blasted _another_ bunch of elves right into the Underdark when they got pissed off over the whole country-blasting thing, and that was how the drow got started.

"Wow," he murmured. "Elves are fucking hardcore." Next to him, Aelrindel made a noise that could've meant anything. He himself was a demonstration, Ricky knew, ever since he'd found out that the tattoos on his face were real. "I mean that in a good way."

He walked on; he read faster than Aelrindel, spent less time scrutinizing the exhibits, and soon left him behind. Now they got into the part that was actually about the city and not about elves blowing up shit. A bunch of boringness about how they'd made the whole thing _just like_ the wrecked one that'd been here before and how it was so awesome two super-mages died making it and how it was a city of Hope and Inspiration and blah de blah dah for a couple hundred years.

He reached 1600: the year the gods bailed. And when Mystra bailed, it said, the magic keeping it a Super Special Secret City of Specialness broke and anyone could waltz in (case in point). Then at the end of the century, something called the War of the Gems. A bust-up with a drow city called Eryndlyn that got spun into a big thing about drow versus "real" elves with other places jumping in to help out one side or another, and that was when most of the drow who'd been living here packed up and never came back. And that was the last interesting thing for the next nine hundred years. But still, it was more than he'd expected.

In the Visitor Center part, there were brochures that said things like Experience the Beauty of Ancient Miyeritar! Which was the name of the country that got blasted. And, Bladesong Exhibitions! Then there was the gift shop, where he leaned against the side of the bookshelf and read about how in the War of the Gems the drow and elves learned whole new ways to blast each other to bits without any magic. He was feeling nice today so he actually bought that book after he went through half of it. And _then_ there was the drow making a beeline for him.

He was tiny, under five feet easy. He wore a shirt that patched together like a quilt; the main theme seemed to be different shades of yellow and purple. Ricky actually kind of liked the shirt, but definitely not the baggy pants that looked like they'd been dyed with tanar'ri puke. His eyes were purple, too, and looked too big on his face, and also were staring right at Ricky. His hair was long, thick, standard-issue white, and didn't look like he took a lot of time brushing it. His backpack looked too big for him.

A few feet away he held out a dry-erase board. There was one word on it in Common, printed large. _WATERDEEP?_

"Yeah," said Ricky automatically. "Taking our time getting there, though. Lucky guess. Or have you been walking up to everyone with that?"

He nodded and reached into his pockets, producing a crumpled card and a marker. He handed Ricky the card, then wiped the board clean with his sleeve and began to write something else.

The card had writing in the same hand, sized to fit. _DURRYN THENDRIK. CANNOT SPEAK_.

"Well, nice to meet you, Thendrik," said Ricky, who'd just been contemplating dubbing him Bizarro-Drizzt.

He'd finished his next message. _TAKE ME._

"No thanks, not my type."

Thendrik blinked, turned it back around, and added something. _TAKE ME?_ _WATERDEEP?_

"Fine with me, but I'd need to clear it with the driver."

Thendrik nodded.

The more Ricky looked at him, the more he liked the idea. He'd gotten the idea by now that Thendrik having a voice wouldn't make him any less of a weirdo. Maybe having another weirdo around would spice things up. And hey, since he was a drow, maybe he'd appreciate Thirdborn Sun more than Aelrindel (who Ricky had discovered, the first time he changed stations on the radio, did not appreciate it at all). Of course that was only if Aelrindel agreed.

At first it looked like he wouldn't. He stared at Thendrik like he'd found a squished snail on his shoe - no, on his bare foot. He said, "Are you _serious_?" And when Thendrik nodded he'd said "Fine. You get a ride, you pay the rest of your way."

"We two could take one room and split the cost," Ricky added, being helpful.

***

_6 Mirtul_

The next day, after they crossed out of the High Moor, Aelrindel dumped them at a rest stop and went out to commune with the Misty Forest (In his head, Ricky had started calling him Mr. Broodypants. Thendrik could be Mr. Stareypants). Ricky and Thendrik played cards in the backseat interspersed with back and forth on the board. Thendrik knew about Thirdborn Sun, though he wrote it Son, and shrugged indifferently at it.

He was running low on scary stories after last night so he told Thendrik about the tourist town of Boareskyr, where they'd stayed night before last. There were large black statues at each end of the bridge - Bhaal and Cyric fixing one another with baleful glares. Though it wasn't that accurate - the statue of Bhaal should be tipped over or something. And Godsbane wasn't authentically pink - Ricky had always thought that part was hilarious, you had to be _really_ dangerous to be taken seriously waving around a pink sword. There was a little bookstore that sold copies of the Candlekeep _Cyrinishad_...

Thendrik drew a question mark.

"The _Cyrinishad_?" A nod. "Well, to start with, they say it was a magic book Cyric made a long time ago, talking about how great he was, to mindfuck everyone into worshipping him. Someone ran off with it to stop that, and nobody could find it. Then, after all the magic left, someone dug up a book near Candlekeep that looked like what itwas supposed to look like. Of course, they couldn't _test_ it, because the magic was gone, so they couldn't say for sure what it was, but plenty of people believe it. Someone got copies made, and they sell a lot to sharrans and people being ironic. They call it the Candlekeep _Cyrinishad_ because, like I said, nobody knows for sure."

_WHERE?_

"I think I've got one in my suitcase. I like to think I'm ironic."

_ORIGINAL?_

"Still in Candlekeep, I guess. I'll have to check it out on my way home."

_HOME?_

"Down south. Really close to the border with Amn. Well, I call it home for now. Haven't thought of a better place yet."

Thendrik pointed to himself and wrote:

_LLURTH DREIR._

"Cool. So why're you going to Waterdeep, anyway?"

_YOU?_

"Fair enough. I'm checking out a hunch." It was easy talking about it more and more with Thendrik's silent face that seemed to take in everything even if it was the most boring thing. "I think my real mother lives there."

Thendrik nodded.

"She had to give me up when I was a baby," Ricky went on. "I don't know that much about her. Not as much as I want to. She's a poet - a really good one. And she writes songs sometimes."

He did have a hunch. Something was waiting for him in Waterdeep, something important, and maybe it was his mother. Just because he'd never known her when he started telling people what she was like didn't mean it wouldn't be true, in the end.

"So. What's your story?"

_LOOKING. WHAT? DON'T KNOW._

"As a friendly suggestion, maybe you're finding yourself. Seeking your fortune. By the way," said Ricky, "nice shirt."

_THANK YOU._

***

They stopped for the night in Daggerford - one last leg to go - and they had dinner at an all-you-can-eat. Thendrik silently inhaled everything on offer right down to several cones of frozen yogurt, and the busboy did a double-take when he came to clear the stack of plates. Ricky looked at him still tiny as ever and speculated that he had a working Bag of Holding down his throat. Then Aelrindel went off somewhere to brood and Ricky took Thendrik to a midnight showing of the Wild Eights movie.

There was probably something very funny about being mugged shortcutting across a park ten minutes after finishing a superhero flick, but Ricky was hard-pressed to put it together right at that moment.

Thendrik wasn't moving, not even when his designated mugger made his gun click ominously at him. Ricky thought as he fished out his wallet that maybe he should be doing something, but at the moment all he was doing besides obeying was fuming. Did they think just because Thendrik was short and Ricky wasn't a bodybuilder they could be pushed around, that _he_ could be pushed around, he was better than that, he was _above_ that, how _dared_ they -

He had his wallet out and the mugger covering him said "Now hand it over nice and -"

"Drop dead!"

It would've been a stupid thing to say if he hadn't meant it so much that he expected it to do something out of the sheer force of his _I fucking hate you_ , but that didn't mean he wasn't at least a little surprised when _something_ moved in the air between them and the guy did just that.

That was when the tentacles burst out of the ground and swirled around Thendrik's guy. His gun went off somewhere in the coils - at least Ricky thought that was what the muffled noise had been. Then, a _crunch_. Then they went right back down, leaving a patch of ripped-up turf and uprooted grass and a body sprawled on top of it with all the angles of its bones off.

Ricky's guy was still lying where he fell. Ricky walked over, feeling like he was about to float right out of his own feet, and poked him with the tip of his shoe, then kicked him. He didn't move, except the way a body moved when kicked in the side. His face was distorted. Terrified. _Dead_.

Thendrik didn't look terrified. In fact, when Ricky glanced back he was practically serene, his hands folded before him, his eyes almost luminous in the moonlight.

"Um," said Ricky, nudging the body again, and heard something behind him - he didn't know what. When he turned around it turned out to be the sound of grass growing very fast and swathing Thendrik up to the neck in plant matter, and he was temporarily at even more of a loss for words.

"What have you _done_?"

"What the _fuck_ , Mr. Broodypants!" Ricky screamed, another sudden overflow, a geyser, an eruption. "Have you been _stalking_ us? You know, we could've used some help _five seconds ago_!"

Aelrindel had jumped out of a nearby tree and was making for them now. He had a knife in his hand. It could've been in his backpack, all this time, ready to chop up unsuspecting hitchhikers, and Ricky hadn't had a clue. "You killed them."

Shock had propelled him to dizzying heights and he was still floating well away from everything. "They totally had it coming."

"So my instincts were true," Aelrindel said, and he wasn't looking at Ricky, he was looking at Thendrik. Thendrik looked at him, smiling despite the vines getting close to his face, and said nothing.

"I thought you were strange for a drow," said Aelrindel. "I didn't realize just _how_ strange. You're not _even_ a drow, you're just wearing its body. I don't know what you were planning for Waterdeep but it stops here."

"You could've just not given him a ride, then," said Ricky.

Aelrindel gave him a grownups-are-talking look, and that was when another set of tentacles went for Aelrindel with all the fervor of a Kozakuran porno.  

That was how the Daggerford police came investigating to find two dead bodies and two unconscious elves, one of the latter throttled in mutant grass and the other looking just plain throttled. They cut the one loose that needed cutting and carted them off for future interrogation re: what the hell just happened.

That was how Ricky learned that if he really needed to, he could turn invisible. And if he were to tiptoe over after the tentacles dissolved and sneak, say, a keychain out of someone's pocket, and a wallet out of the other pocket, he could make them invisible too by putting them in _his_ pocket.

And that was how Ricky ended the night hightailing it north in Marius Aelrindel's car.


	19. Kiira

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mentions of suicide.

  
_"Forevermore," said Corellon, "you will never be able to conceal the truth of your heart." And from that day on Vhaeraun's eyes turned colors._

\- "The High Forest Book," 2101 DR

 

**KIIRA**

_(Shooting star)_

_4 Mirtul_

"Sorry you didn't get to hold it," said Kiira as they sat down at the bus stop, cradling his moonblade. It was wrapped up so thick you couldn't see the light of the moonstone. "But, you know, the whole 'frying the unworthy' thing, apparently they count everyone who isn't a moon elf as unworthy. Some half-humans managed way back when, 'cause their other half was moony, but other than that, zip."

"They were made by moon elves, weren't they."

"Uh huh."

They'd gotten out of the museum eventually, after the initial freaking-out. Ms. Brownmantle hadn't considered that it might _work_ , and he couldn't much blame her, so there was much running around for wrapping paper and paperwork. The two elven onlookers whipped out their phones and snapped picture after picture (they'd agreed to email the best to Kiira).

Veldrin said, "Let's see how much we can get done before it really gets around and we're jumped by the media."

"Maybe it won't get around and they won't jump at all," said Kiira, amusing himself by rubbing away the edges of the wrapping paper and leaving a bundle without seams.

One of them had said she was going to blog about it. Kiira wished her well and wondered how many would declare it So Fake U Noob!. But say someone thought there might be something to it. Say they called the museum and Ms. Brownmantle, who was nothing like a pranky kind of person and didn't look it either, said yeah, that's true he pulled it out and it started shining like, well, like the full moon, and the museum didn't have the Craulnober moonblade anymore...

Well, what had he _expected_?

He really should be getting in touch with the Princess, shouldn't he?

After they got back to the hotel he plugged in his laptop, jittered at the desk while it loaded, and logged into his email. The pictures had already arrived - he downloaded them and reattached his favorites to the messages he fired off in quick succession. One to Mom and Dad ( _really really not kidding on this one_ ), one to Mayae (he remembered enough to ask her _oh and howre finals goin over there?_ ), one to Seniadra. With that last one, he tagged on _Ps was teh dead guy Vhaeraun?_

On the couch, it looked like Veldrin was doing much the same thing. What he was telling his other friends Kiira didn't know and he didn't say.

***

_5 Mirtul_

He made a few calls that night, and more the next morning, working down his Waterdeep list. Hey, it's Kiira, I'm in the neighborhood if you want to go clubbing or something and I have a Faerunian Express, oh by the way do you know anyone named Larissa Fariha? Maybe the last part sounded weird but he'd asked weirder.

Pay dirt with Ralien and Dareyne Nimersyl. Sure, they knew her. They partied with her sometimes. They were stage techs at a theater so sometimes they met her while she was working - that was how they'd met her the first time. She _was_ an actress, like Veldrin wrote down. And she liked to come over and play with their cats. "Yeah, I think she'd like you." In the meantime, did you want to come over and we'll see if she can meet you?

So! Another taxi to the Nimersyl brownstone, a securely-behatted Veldrin in tow, the moonblade discreetly rewrapped. What with all the crankiness and stress and staying home or going to Waterdeep for the last few days, Kiira hadn't seen the Veldrin Auzkovyn Let's Be Friends Mode for a while now. Veldrin turned it on with the Nimersyls and got the usual results with his smiling and his wittiness and his concern for how you were getting on. He was like this with most of his friends - they didn't see him storming around or yelling or being _really incredibly_ sarcastic, all he showed them was being a great friend. Which was real, sure, he _did_ make a great friend (in their youth, the would-be bullies of High Forest trembled at his approach), but the other part was real too. He did it with Kiira, though. Let down his hair, so to speak.

They got acquainted with the new generation of cats. The ones Kiira had met the last time were getting on in years. There'd been a litter four months ago, and they'd kept two of the kittens. Kiira could've played with the kittens for hours, waiting for Larissa to return the call they'd made. Even Veldrin got into it, crouching down and petting them. For the first time, Kiira saw his eyes go blue.

The twins noticed. "Larissa's been having something weird going on with her eyes too," said Dareyne.

"Has she?" said Veldrin.

They called again, and this time they mentioned that too - "Maybe you can brainstorm over it or something."

A half hour of kitten-entertaining later, Larissa called back: sorry, she'd been at the hospital visiting a friend, she was kind of busy right now, could they come over and meet her instead? At the Silverstar Inn? Here was the address.

The Silverstar Inn wasn't, like he'd thought, a quirky old-timey restaurant. It was an actual hotel. Well, motel. She waited in the lobby. She wasn't wearing a red dress anymore, but her hair _was_ black and her eyes _were_ an incrediblecat-slit green and, suddenly, they were very wide.

"Hi! So I'm Kiira and this is Veldrin and it's nice to meet you and do you _live_ here and do I have something on my nose?"

"Hi." She managed to smile off-kilter. Her voice was throaty and made Kiira think of soft things. She was very pretty and he thought she might even be prettier than Mayae. "Come on up."

The walk up to the third floor was way too quiet. Kiira tried talking some more, but she wasn't giving him much to work with and Veldrin wasn't helping. "We've kind of set up headquarters here," she said at last as they stepped onto the floor itself. "It was where we all ended up congregating one night, and... why did you ask for me?"

"Would it be very creepy if I said Veldrin saw you in his dreams?"

"Ha! I've had creepier."

"So did you ever catch Ilithaine? Crazy arrow guy? Or were they not the same person?"

She paused momentarily in the corridor. "They're the same. Kind of. It gets complicated and preposterous."

"Ha! I bet we've had preposterouser."

"And Tarlyn Argith?" said Veldrin behind them. "Have you seen him?"

This time her pause was more than momentary. She turned around, too. She'd gone tense, and her eyes had gone narrow. "Why do you want to know?"

Kiira glanced over his shoulder at Veldrin in time to see the red flash through his eyes. Then green, and he shrugged. "I dreamed he chased after a genocidal maniac with a sword. I already like him."

Back to Larissa, who seemed kind of satisfied with that. "He's probably in right now. And... Ilithaine. Ilithaine's with him. "

Now it was Veldrin's turn to narrow his eyes, with the red sneaking back in. "What do you mean by 'with?'"

"Told you it was complicated," she said, and turned on her heel to carry on another few steps to the door of Room 305, where she slid in her keycard and opened the door. Kiira passed through the door with the rest of them, maneuvering the package of moonblade, as Larissa called "Honey, we're home!" and, inside, he saw.

There were three people in the room. One of them was a human, sitting at the desk reading something. The human in the dream, he remembered - Theris Frost, the boom-boom guy. One of them was a drow with a white braid and a sword at his hip, sitting in a stuffed chair watching the news, who had to be Tarlyn Argith. One of them was Ilithaine, sitting on the edge of the bed, and he was also watching the news.

Frost looked up and nodded at them. Just slightly out of unison had-to-be-Tarlyn and Ilithaine turned around and stayed that way, transfixed, startled as Larissa had been downstairs to a power of twenty or so. The moment stretched out thin and, finally, snapped as Veldrin strode past. Even from behind, Kiira could see the way Veldrin's shoulders set just so, and he looked on as the Veldrin Auzkovyn Let's Be Friends, Drow Who Is Also A Guy, Solidarity And All That Mode went into overdrive.

"Hey," said Veldrin after passing Ilithaine without a glance, "great to meet you in person." He held out a hand.

Tarlyn, if possible, seemed even more paralyzed. Then he flung out a hand the rest of the way and shook firmly. "When was the not-in-person?"

"Night of Mirtul third. I'm told it won't be insane to say this, so I saw you at a party - I think it was something like Living Skullport -" Kiira guessed he didn't think it, he knewit. "I saw you, well, being proactive, pursuing justice, that kind of thing."

Tarlyn laughed. It was loud and short and sharp and like it was wrapped around a core of bitter. "It was a draw."

"Can't win everything. And _he_ didn't win. The people who were shot... you know how they're doing?"

"Marteil's okay," said Tarlyn. "They're sending him home tomorrow - I saw him today at the hospital. He says his flying days are over but he never had them to begin with. And Sannara Soldou..." He glanced over to Larissa.

Larissa took up the thread. "She's stable." Ilithaine, looking on with the rest of them, had the conscience to flinch.

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Veldrin, with every tell of sincerity.  "Which brings me to something _else_ I wanted to ask, namely -"

"You look like brothers," said Kiira.

The way Veldrin and Tarlyn both looked to him reinforced his impression. If you counted out the whole hair and eyes thing, and Veldrin being a head taller, if you just looked at their faces, you could see how many things were shaped the same way. And other things in Tarlyn's face looked a bit like... "What? When was I _supposed_ to say it?"

Veldrin's eyes flickered blue. Larissa stifled laughter. Frost chuckled in a vaguely creepy way. Tarlyn half smiled, after a moment. Ilithaine did nothing, which would fit with the whole War on Smiles thing (as if he needed _another_ reason not to like Shevarash). Not that Kiira didn't appreciate people getting his jokes, but when he hadn't meant one...

"Let me confirm this," said Frost. He'd put away his book and had out a piece of paper. "All of us in this room have recently exercised some kind of supernatural power. Am I right?"

Nods all around.

"And some of us independently concluded that this was divine in origin. Is that right?"

Veldrin and Ilithaine nodded. Probably a good thing they didn't see each other do it.

"And the rest of you at least agree it's a possibility. Is that also right?"

Nod from Larissa, nod from Kiira, though he did contemplate shaking his head for the heck of it.

"All right," said the human. "Introductions. I'm -"

"Theris Frost," said Kiira.

"Theris Frost. I believe I'm empowered by Assuran. You've met Larissa Fariha."

"Mine's probably Sharess," Larissa added.

"And," he hesitated, "this is Rilashan Ilithaine."

Ilithaine looked up and said, flat as a pancake, "I have Shevarash in my head."

"And -"

"Tarlyn Argith," said Tarlyn. "Mine's Selvetarm." He said it looking up at Veldrin, watching him react.

Veldrin shrugged. "A little while ago I figured that was probably it. The drow pantheon has three males in it and one of them's a giant ooze we only count to make it even. I've had time to get over anything... instinctive."

Tarlyn nodded and threw out something else, very casual. "At first I wanted to sock you, but there's really no reason for that. Is there?"

After a moment Veldrin laughed, and the rush of blue proved he meant it. "All right, to make it formal." He took off his cap, pulled out hairpins, brushed his blue hair back down into its natural fall with one hand, made it look effortless and maybe even dramatic. "Veldrin Auzkovyn and mine's Vhaeraun."

They looked to him, then, and he thought it over one more time. Thought of how he'd seen Kren Auzkovyn die. The table with the shooting star. He wanted to be like Elaith Craulnober, he'd give some of his prayers to the same god. "Kiira Craulnober, pretty sure it's Erevan Ilesere... _oh,_ I get it!" Yeah, Selvetarm was Vhaeraun's _kid_ , wasn't he? "And I woke up my moonblade yesterday," he added, because it was probably important.

Frost had been writing since Veldrin spoke. He wrote something else and put down his pen. "I'm doing a kind of survey of who we know. Looking for correlations and so on. Would you mind giving me your nameday?"

"Shieldmeet," said Kiira.

"Midwinter," said Veldrin.

Frost nodded at the last one. "And this probably sounds strange, but... was either of you found abandoned, as a child?"

"I was," said Veldrin.

"Can I ask where?"

"High Forest."

He nodded again. "We seem to have a disproportionately high number of abandonees."

"How so?"

Tarlyn's head lowered a bit and he muttered, "At the Underrail station in Rhyman."

Ilithaine, even more muttery: "In Black Oak Park."

Veldrin detonated in a burst of red. "Are you fucking _kidding_ me? _You_? _Shevarash_? In _Cormanthor_?"

"There didn't always _use_ to be all those drow there," Kiira felt obliged to point out. "Shevarash is probably like a millennium out of date. Wouldn't expectit. And we knew he was from _Drannor_ , even, it was on Madh's boxes and I had the whole address but you closed the window on me before I could show you."

"Black Oak Park is named after a former shrine," Frost added. "The site of his apotheosis, in fact. The actual oak was cut down a few centuries back. It's an interesting story-"

"And you go all the way to _Waterdeep_ to start killing drow? Or did you get some practice at home, running around screaming about 'desecrating the ways of the People'?" Was that what Ilithaine had yelled at Kren Auzkovyn about the table and so on? Kiira didn't remember the exact words, but it sounded about right. Veldrin _would_ remember that. "I don't remember hearing about any serial killers when _I_ was in Drannor, but that was a year ago-"

"I didn't!" Ilithaine shouted, on his feet. "I _didn't_! Yes, I was in Cormanthor, I was in Drannor, I _lived_ in Drannor, and this sounds horrible but _some of my best friends were drow_! And they weren't evil, I _knew_ they weren't evil, they didn't deserve to die, and I told Shevarash if we're killing drow we should kill ones who _deserve_ it and that's why we went to Waterdeep! _That's_ why!"

Silence rushed through in the wake of his shout. Eventually Kiira said, "And you used to love Rizzen Elfkin, right?"

***

"I... I used to be a very happy person," said Rilashan Ilithaine.

Gather round, gather round. The other three had picked up chunks here and there about Ilithaine and how he got here and started shooting people, but this was the first time they'd taken it from the top - which Veldrin had demanded that they do. Ilithaine stood with his hands in his pockets, looking down at his bare feet.

"I didn't think much about gods or anything like that. Mostly just about having fun. That was part of why I went in for bladesinging - very flashy, nice costumes. I ran along like that for thirty-six years.

"It started last Midwinter. That... that was my nameday, too. Bad dreams, to start. The massacre at the Dark Court. Things like that. Then _things_ started going through my head. Thoughts I'd never have thought before. I'd see drow, I'd see people just walking around on the street and I'd be so _angry_. I tried to figure out what was wrong in my head, tried to, you know, excavate, and I found Shevarash. And yeah. He wasn't happy at _all_. Not about Cormanthor and not about the rest of it.

"I thought I'd talked him down. Like I said, only the ones who really deserved it. Still didn't seem like a good idea to stay in Drannor, though, so I told everyone I was going to find myself. I sold the Rizzen Elfkin stuff to raise funds. How'd you know about that? Never mind. I thought, okay, compromise, I'm out of Drow Central, it's all good.

"But it kept going on. The dreams and everything. I couldn't give you a date, but with all of that I started agreeing with him. He seemed to know so much more, been through so much more, and he was a _god_..."

Veldrin's voice was low but not all that bothered about being surreptitious, "Being a god. Well, _that's_ a guarantee of sensible thinking."

Which was true - the sarcastic thing Veldrin actually meant, not the literal thing he'd just said. Kiira thought he'd heard once that the orcs had a god of being stupid, and _he_ certainly couldn't be all that bright. But with a god actually looking over your shoulder telling you to smite people it might not be as easy to tell them so. Good thing Erevan was a hands-off sort.

"So we got to Waterdeep," he said. "And I was sitting in a restaurant, and that was when I heard Kren Auzkovyn swear an oath to Vhaeraun."

"But he was a murderer," said Frost.

"Yes, but didn't you say that was _your_ reason? The little girl he almost killed? I didn't have that reason, I had the wrong reason. I heard him say _Vhaeraun_ and that settled it for Shevarash and for me. And that didn't make sense either - "

Veldrin scoffed. "Who would've _guessed_."

"- because I knew _tons_ of people in Drannor who pray to Vhaeraun and _they_ weren't actually evil or thieves or assassins or rapists or -"

"I think you can stop digging now," said Kiira. He'd seen Veldrin's eyes flicker to the moonblade and then to the sword at Tarlyn's belt, the one he knew was real and wouldn't fry him.

"Sorry! I'm sorry. All over again... that was the start. And then I saw Miss Kenafin, and she was dressed like a priestess of the Nameless, and... and Shevarash thought that meant she deserved it, and I didn't stop him. He said things like if he'd come back then the Nameless probably had, and she could be a real priestess and there was no point in taking a risk and coming back and finding out she'd zombified a dozen people. And I bought it. I _wanted_ to buy it.

"Then I went after Tarlyn. I'd seen him the morning after I killed Auzkovyn. In a restaurant, again -"

" _I_ killed Auzkovyn," said Frost.

"I shot him before you showed up."

"But he still could have survived that if he'd gotten to a hospital. I was the one who actually -"

Kiira wasn't sure why they were talking like they were trying to claim an honor instead of competing over who could piss off Veldrin more (Ilithaine, definitely, he had too much of a head start). Even if _that_ Auzkovyn was the kind of guy who ran over little girls, and Veldrin knew that, he suspected a little bit of Veldrin still thought _Clan Auzkovyn_ and _Solidarity_ and _Must Be Avenged_ and so on. Wow, they were thick on the revenge in here.

"All right, so you were planning to shoot me after the party," said Tarlyn, loud enough to cut over Theris. He sounded remarkably not-pissed about this, which really just continued the trend. They'd only just been hanging out watching TV. "Larissa's friends, too? Houndaer and Sannara?"

"Probably. Yes. They were both dressed as priests, Lolth's and Vhaeraun's - they were secondary targets."

Larissa's fist clenched, just a little.

"That... that didn't happen as I planned. So Tarlyn chased me and brought me down, and when I woke up Larissa made me realize that what I was doing was wrong. More than wrong. _Evil_. And whatever I can do to make up for it, I'd do it gladly. Only... only Shevarash is in my head, shouting at me, pushing at my thoughts, I can't think a thought without hitting him, and it's... it's...."

"Overwhelming," said Tarlyn.

"Yeah. That's it. Overwhelming. And... and I've kind of got it shut away, it mostly comes out in dreams, sometimes a burst during the day - I got one, when I saw you two - but I don't know how long that'll last. And I'm... I'm very hard to kill, these days, and I don't know if trying will just... let him out."

Kiira waited, and realized that was the end - the flapping loose end. Veldrin looked less irate and the red about him less bright, but only by a dab, and that dab was so small Kiira might be imagining it.

Frost said, "I think one thing we can all agree on is that we don'twant Shevarash on the loose. Assuran's usual practices don't work on him, maybe because he's another god of similar power and domain."

Veldrin inclined his head slightly at that and looked over to Tarlyn, who shrugged. "With what's in _my_ head, and what I've seen from that... Zanassu, and letting in things you can't get out... if he's telling the truth he didn't even kill anything for it to happen. It just started _happening_. I'd... I'd like to think someone'd do the same for me. Maybe we could... exorcise him or something."

"Fine," said Veldrin. "I'll go with it for now."

Larissa said, "If Tarlyn wants to, okay. Though it's kind of weird cooped up in here and you don't know if you're a jail guard or a roommate..."

"Hey," said Kiira, "maybe you - we - could be roommates somewhere nicer. I have the money."

***

They ended up trooping into the Garden Hotel, where Kiira took out the Faerunian Express in his name, extended their original booking, and paid for the adjoining suite. There was some talk about Larissa having her own room, technically a room for the ladies by which they meant the only lady they had, but she said there was no point to it. "Actually, I haven't been home in a while. I'd like some Zs in my own bed." But she stuck around for now, helping lug in all their bags and get settled - she was pretty _and_ pretty strong. Tarlyn was pretty strong too, more than someone just seeing his shortness would think. With the last bag in and the baggage trolley wheeled out and the door between rooms unlocked, Veldrin pulled the cap back off and sighed with relief as his hastily-repinned hair all fell back again.

Kiira checked his email. Nothing from Seniadra yet, a new one from Mayae. He was still thinking over that one when Theris called him to huddle around the coffee table and help fill in the chart some more - all the other people they knew had powers.

At least he wouldn't just hang around jittering. "Seniadra Moonflower and Lamruil Sylvar. They come hang out in my Reverie sometimes."

"The Nameless has someone, I think," said Rilashan, on the edge of the huddle. "I don't know _her_ name, but she's coming and she can have me."

"Oh, shut up," muttered Veldrin.

"Here's something that might be important," said Kiira. "There's this friend of mine on the Weave. Mayae Veladorn. She's coming to Waterdeep - actually, she might already be here by now - and she wants to talk to me while she's there, gave me her number so we could coordinate and stuff. The way she put it, it's not just a real-life meetup. And I just told her about the moonblade waking up, so, context."

Theris said, "Yes, that might be -"

Veldrin said, "You said you have a picture of her?"

"Um, yeah."

"Could you show me?"

Kiira went back to the laptop. "If she's one," Veldrin went on behind him, "then I might get that feeling again, and then we'd know for sure."

"Maybe I should look too," said Tarlyn, and Kiira heard his footsteps join the whisper of Veldrin's.

Another few seconds and he'd pulled it into view. Mayae from the waist up, with a sword over her shoulder. Sword dancing, it was called, traditional, and she was good at it. And her eyes were as silver as her sword, and the same went for her long hair, and Kiira could put it together with it all laid out in front of him in the split second before Tarlyn hissed and Veldrin sighed the sigh of someone who is sick of all this shit.

One thing, though: she had clothes on. 


	20. Veldrin Auzkovyn

_  
We stand together, and neither of us kneel._

_We stand together, and no one can stand against us._

_We stand together and together turn our blades against our enemies._

_We stand together and the spiders tremble._

\- Excerpt from earliest known work of Siora of Eryndlyn, 1332 DR

 

**VELDRIN**

_(Dark half-mask)_

_5 Mirtul_

The first time he saw Tarlyn Argith, he was standing near Larissa Fariha of the red dress and the cat's eyes (Larissa had arrived earlier, and Veldrin had already taken her measure). A shocked frisson went up his disembodied spine, and mixed with the usual first impressions was a blast of recognition, an immense disgusted contempt. A momentary utter certainty that this was surely an idiot beyond hope. Even as he processed all this, Tarlyn had turned with wide eyes and stumbled back. He sees me, Veldrin thought, seized by another frisson. Then he realized that no, he saw Houndaer Vrinn in his cloak and his half-mask.

That was only the first impression, though. Why did I feel that, Veldrin thought afterward, trying to unpack it. It makes no sense. He was just _standing_ there.

As closely as they stood, easy to compare, he thought that some of Tarlyn's features might resemble Larissa's. Some of the shapes of his face, once you accounted for their entirely different complexions and expressions. His hair might not be as incredibly black, in fact quite the opposite, but it looked as thick and full as hers even confined to a braid. _Why_ he might look like her, though, he hadn't realized at the time.

Then the second impression, the third, the fourth, in endless succession. He saw Tarlyn tear away from the brief dance with Larissa and cling to the wall, away from the revelry, watching, listening. Veldrin made sure to keep an eye on him even as he followed Houndaer in search of what else he was surely meant to see. The disgust faded. Then the contempt fell away, leaving only a sort of pity. Why should he hate Tarlyn when he seemed just the kind of person he made a point of befriending? A young male around the age of timid Jezz Ulo, adrift. A drow who'd become a bladesinger's apprentice, hammering in that he was every bit as _Tel'Quessir_ as their paler cousins. A five-foot-something bundle of loneliness and rage.

Mostly loneliness, at that point. The rage came to the fore later.

***

Tarlyn agreed to talk to him in quasi-privacy. In the front room of their original suite, Kiira was on the phone arranging their imminent encounter with the disturbingly-appropriately-named Mayae Veladorn. In the bedroom, they crouched like hiding children in the space between the side of Veldrin's bed and the wall. The fit wasn't too cramped; they could sit cross-legged without trouble. This way, it was less obvious how much taller Veldrin was. Veldrin thought that might help, subconsciously.

"Should we discuss theology?" he began. That got him a quick smile.

Kiira had said they looked like brothers. Once he pointed it out, Veldrin could see it was true. His earlier observations, regarding Larissa Fariha, were still true as well. They could be two brothers and a half-sister (and perhaps they _were_ biologicalbrothers, at least, the children of someone who, after twenty years, still couldn't be bothered to dump unwanted offspring at an actual hospital).

Or, with adjustment for age, they could be father and mother and son.

And the implications of _that_ , combined with the implications of certain other things he'd taken note of... put it this way, they didn't do much to deflate his ego.

All well and good to have a large ego, if you could back it up with equally-sized deeds.

"I don't actually know that much about it," said Tarlyn. "About them. Besides what I read yesterday."

Veldrin wondered how much an upbringing in Rhyman had to do with it. Rhymanthiin, so-called City of Hope - built over the ruins of a Miyeritari city in supposed tribute. Shamelessly appropriated by the very faerie elves whose ancestors had razed Miyeritar and cast down the survivors along with the "guilty" Ilythiir. Even before all this began he'd read about the War of the Gems and how what drow had managed to settle there were driven out by bigoted paranoia; their numbers had never recovered. Maybe that was another reason for _him-_ him, Veldrin Auzkovyn, to be more favorably disposed toward Selvetarm: Rhymanthiin's initial opponent in that war had been Eryndlyn, and one of its greatest generals was the city Weapons Master, Chaszyrd Thenduk, who openly revered the Spider that Waits after the mass departure of the gods made it far less important which of them was and wasn't dead. That wasn't the only favorable precedent Eryndlyn offered with regard to potential for cooperation (in fact, it wasn't the only precedent Thenduk himself offered), though all of that had come together after Vhaeraun and Selvetarm were both in no position to object. But he digressed.

"We can unpack what we have," said Veldrin. "And you have a primary source, so to speak, that I don't." As did he, but bringing that up wasn't necessary. "You've already said your first instinct was to sock me. Let me make a confession: my first instinct was to look down on you. Figuratively. But that would be irrational and so we've neither of us done that, have we? I'm _fairly_ sure I haven't, at least. Tell me if I'm wrong." Another flickering smile. "Now let's try to work out why we wanted to and see what we can do about it."

Tarlyn ventured, "If what that site said was true... _he_ almost killed _his_ mother," pointing between them to confirm who bore each pronoun. "That might have something to do with it."

"That makes sense," said Veldrin, and it did. Did Vhaeraun have a reasonable motive for trying to subsume Zandilar? If so, sifting through what memories he could gather hadn't yet turned one up, though he _had_ turned up some memories that he'd rather not contemplate overmuch (he might have contemplated them later, in privacy, but knowing attempted murder lay in the near future of those images rather quelled erotic impulses. He had perfectly good memories of his own). Nothing to be said for that except perhaps that it must have seemed like a good idea at the time, which he didn't say.

"And." Tarlyn tilted his head slightly, nipping at his lip while he formulated the next sentence.  "I'm trying to think... what _he_ thinks of him. I'm mostly getting impressions, not, um, complete sentences or anything. There's this one word, one concept - treachery. That keeps coming up. It might have a bit to do with the mother-killing thing."

Treachery - he'd heard that one before, in history lessons both academic and independent. And though its blatancy had generally diminished, there remained an undercurrent in the present day, especially among faeries with their long lives and consequent slow-changing attitudes (with exceptions, naturally, one of which was still chattering away out front). _The drow are treacherous, everyone knows, so never give them a chance to prove it - and never give them a chance to prove they can be trusted_.

Funny to hear that Selvetarm disapproved of it, though, as deeply associated as he was with the toxic culture that had _created_ the stereotype. And he'd read enough old revelation narratives (Vhaeraun appearing to the unfortunate and the unfortunate going on to stab themselves some priestesses) to know that when you found yourself stranded in the middle of that level of toxicity, you did what you must. Ignorant onlookers might scorn you, but you were alive to be scorned.

"And another thing... it's not a _good_ reason, but it's a reason..." Tarlyn's frown deepened; he gestured without seeming to notice, as if trying to mold the right words. "Being under Lolth... being _bound_ to her... he wasn't happy."

Veldrin thought that might be a contender for understatement of the century. Granted, this century had only just begun.

"So I get the feeling he was jealous. Of Vhaeraun. Because at the time Vhaeraun was running around and doing what he liked and I guess he'd think, why can't that be _me_?" The movements of his hands became abrupt and frustrated. "Then he'd think, if I'm a slave why shouldn't _he_ be?" His hands dropped. "It doesn't make sense, but there it is. Okay. Your turn."

_All right, what do you have to say for yourself?_

He, too, was answered largely in impressions at first as he visualized unlocking doors and opening boxes in hitherto-unknown passageways. He saw Tarlyn's face - Selvetarm's face - older, more worn. And instead of being attached to something like Tarlyn's body with wiry limbs and more strength than it appeared to hold, it was atop a blood-spattered arachnid grotesquery bristling with various gore-dripping weapons. Disgust bloomed, and _this_ disgust he could explain. But why be disgusted with the victim instead of the crime? It made no sense.

Veldrin had picked up Vhaeraun's fundamental principles mostly by osmosis throughout his fifty years, and he'd been raised culturally Vhaeraunite if not religiously so. He'd read them over back home, the most commonly accepted plus recorded variants, to be sure he hadn't missed anything. _Cruelty against drow males must be avenged_ , it said _._ It had never said _except for the ones you don't like_. There was theory and there was practice.

Then he opened up whatever had contained the contempt, and what words made it up, explaining more: "He thought Selvetarm was stupid," he blurted, more bluntly than he'd have liked. He managed not to say the next few things that came to mind. _A born pawn. A weapon to be wielded by whoever picks it up - no moonblade, him!_ _Someone who'd always be used, and one day discarded_.

"That makes sense if he was anything like me."

Something clenched in Veldrin's throat at the casual self-dismissal (don't tear yourself down, remember you're worth as much as anyone, you have a right to exist and a right to have rights - that was _basic_ , 101-level), and at the same time something else trembled with suppressed laughter - _yes, even he knows there's no point denying it!_

He searched further. Anger, too, shot through with what might be hatred. "And he cut off his hand once, in a fight."

_It could've ended there if it weren't for him. Could've cut down the bitch in her slumber and that would've been the end of it. And I would've lived and, who knows, he might have lived too. But no - he couldn't resist her even for this!_

"And..."

 _And why did he have to have that face? Why couldn't he have looked more like Zandilar, why couldn't he have looked like his aunt or one of his grandparents, why couldn't he have looked like anyone else in existence? Why did_ she _have that face for herself to speak the words she'd never hear from me, and a body attached to do her bidding?_

And Tarlyn sat there, waiting.

At least his tongue didn't fail him. "And there's the whole business with Lolth again... he wasn't happy about that, either. He hated that he couldn't save you even though that was his entire mission, saving those like you. So he wanted to think you weren't worth saving."

Tarlyn blinked at him. Veldrin realized why.

Shit. _You_. He'd said _you_. His tongue _had_ failed him. At least it hadn't failed the rest of the way. He hadn't started saying _I_. "Sorry. Got... caught up, I guess."

"No problem. So that's everything?"

"Those're the main things, I think. None of it really applies to _us_ , though, does it? I'd like it if we didn't start it over again. And if we could go above just tolerance, even try being friends or something like that... that would be great." He thought of adding a quip, _I'm too young to be a father_ ,but considering precedent it would flop or worse.

Tarlyn nodded and put his hand out. "I think I'd like that, too."

Veldrin laid his hand over Tarlyn's. It was smaller in proportion with the rest of him, and the fingers were noticeably shorter. This wasn't a surprise, considering the length of Veldrin's fingers. He could feel the calluses from extensive swordplay (swordwork?). They stayed this way a few seconds, longer than the earlier quick handshake, before mutually withdrawing.

"So you've been to Drannor?"

Good a place to start as any. "A few vacations, and I've had one year of college so far."

Tarlyn was suitably impressed. "I thought once I might like to go there, but I never had the marks."

"We could go for fun, then. Kiira will pay."

He looked up and around what of the room he could see. The Garden Hotel was indisputably of a different class than the Silverstar. "He has a lot of money, doesn't he?"

"The Craulnober fortune, yeah. It's big enough for them to live off the interest, and it's old enough that nobody's alive to want it back." Things were worn smooth and innocuous in time, water on stone. Kiira's crimelord ancestor was a conversation piece rather than a cause for wary looks. Kiira could generate wary looks perfectly well on his own.

Tarlyn was wary for a different reason. "I'd like that, if you aren't joking."

"Definitely not. I mean every word when I say you could do with something that's not Faerie Central. Ever been to Eryndlyn?"

"Only as far as the Underrail station. Actually... this whole trip's the first time I've been out of the High Moor." He smiled. "And Waterdeep's the first place I've really _seen_. I spent most of Evermeet throwing up."

"Fuck Evermeet, you didn't miss much. It's where the worst of elven conservatism crawls off to die - they didn't let in drow until the turn of the millennium and they haven't stopped giving them dirty looks. Come to think of it, I spent most of Evermeet with a headache." He'd been fifteen at the time, and utterly miserable.

"Maybe it's some old curse, if it happened to both of us. Did it start getting better right after you left?"

"Huh. That's a definite possibility, all things considered. So are we agreed on Drannor, then?"

"Sure."

"And then maybe Eryndlyn. I haven't been to the Underdark myself, and neither has Kiira; it'll be new for all of us. I could teach you the language before we go."

"You're okay with that? Spending that much time?"

The bewilderment that went with those words gave Veldrin that clenching feeling again. "I'm as rich in time as Kiira is in cash. More, actually, he spends everything so fast."

"Oh. Well, thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I haven't delivered."

"So what places in Drannor do I need to go, when I go?" He was rapt, intent on filling in the gaps in his imagination.

Veldrin obliged. "Do you want an itemized report? Of course there's the campus. A lot of it's historical treasures. Even the dorms - funny story about those, actually."

Tarlyn nodded him onward. "Uh huh?"

"We drow had a lot to do with setting up the university, so of course we were going to name some buildings. It started with one dorm - the group that funded it named it the Jezz Jaelre Memorial Hall. You've heard of him?"

"Sure, in Drannor movies. Jezz the Lame, right? With the kukri?"

"Right. With the kukri. The Eilistraeens didn't take that well, so they raised the money to build another dorm right across the way. The _Halisstra Melarn_ Memorial Hall." Tarlyn laughed. "If I remember right, those particular ones were actually related to her. Distant great-nieces and such. At least we got something useful out of it. That's not always the case. The faerie elves saw all this going on and decided nothing would do but to fund _another_ dorm, bigger than both of them put together. They named thatone after Queen Amlaruil of Evermeet. So now we have House Jaelre, House Melarn, and the Palace, and all the students at Drannor had single rooms for decades."

"Did you live in House Jaelre, then?"

"Yeah. Jaelre's for males, Melarn's females."

"Theologically appropriate?"

"Exactly. Jaelre started out coeducational when it was the only one, but when the others got in on it they figured might as well. The Palace is the mixed one. So that's the dorms, and that's just one thing you can find on campus. Then there's the stuff that's off it. The movie studios, for one thing. They're always calling for extras. There's museums. There's those _ancient_ buildings from the old Myth Drannor and Elven Court. And Cormanthor's beautiful on its own. It still has a lot of the old forest left. Just walking out there at night, with the stars out, you know there was a whole other reason why our ancestors decided they were here to stay... something wrong?"

Tarlyn stopped frowning. "Just wondering... if maybe you passed Ilithaine in the street or something, and didn't know it."

 _Ilithaine_. He'd been so busy rummaging about investigating his, well, personal issues that Ilithaine's residence had completely slipped his mind even though he'd been the one to tell Kiira about it. Once he was reminded, of course, its (infuriating) significance didn't escape him. Now Tarlyn's comment had him searching again, through his own memories, and...

"I might have, come to think of it. On my nameday last year, in my college year, before all this started. I went out for dinner with some friends. The place we went to was popular with both the students and the locals. Across the room, with _his_ friends, there was a green elf dancing on the table. From what we heard of them, it was his nameday too. His thirty-fifth. The same build, I remember. The right age. Dark hair. And the voices... they _could_ have been the same person. It's downright disturbing, in retrospect."

Tarlyn, too, seemed to be straining his imaginative faculties to visualize Ilithaine dancing on a table. "So he was telling the truth when he said he was very happy."

"For the sake of the drow of the world I wish he'd stayed that way."

They looked at each other for empty seconds.

"You're not as bad as he is," said Veldrin. " _Never_ think that."

"If I lose my shit and start hacking people up, can I start thinking that?"

"Even then, the motivations would be completely different. Selvetarm, I gather, lashes out at what he can because he can't hurt his true oppressor." Maybe Vhaeraun would think that was hilarious, but. "Shevarash murders out of blind and unreasoning hatred."

"But Shevarash swore revenge after his whole family got killed," said Tarlyn. "It might not be a good reason, but he has a reason too."

"With talk like that, I'm sure you won't be having a loss of shit anytime soon. Some would say you have, ha, the mercy of Eilistraee."

Another empty, staring second. Tarlyn began to laugh. Veldrin joined him soon after. It wasn't that funny at all. He could recognize that even as his cackles graduated to howls. But the laughing had begun, all the same, and it fed on itself. Tarlyn threw his head back, put his back into the motion, and toppled over on the carpet, arms out, still wracked with uncontrollable not-quite-humor. Veldrin held himself up only with the support of the wall.

"Hey, who started the party without me?"

That, quite unintentionally, had the same effect as a bucket of ice water. Veldrin opened his eyes and saw Kiira appear at the foot of the bed, standing just clear of Tarlyn's hair. Tarlyn, too, was settling down. Veldrin pulled himself back to his feet.

"So," said Kiira as Tarlyn regained himself enough to reach up and follow suit, "How's the, uh, male bonding going?"

"You dream about it too," said Tarlyn. "Don't you?"

Veldrin caught on to what he meant right away, and nodded back.

"Come on, fill me in?"

Veldrin waved vaguely. "Nothing really. Just... reasoned discourse on Eilistraee's infinite mercy."

 _The blinding terror he'd never felt before or since. This,_ this _was how he would die. He would die. He_ could _die; it had simply never occurred to him that he might. And if it had occurred to him, he never would've imagined it like this._

_He was going to die screaming. And, he became sickeningly certain - more with each fraction of a moment that passed, with his resolve collapsing at a quickening rate - he was going to die begging._

"Ohhh," said Kiira. "You're talking about those screwy dreams, right? Wait, that Selvetarm guy died too, didn't he? How'd that... I remember! It was in the play! There was a lady who chopped his head off! And the same day as Vhaeraun, what're the chances? But... yeah, that's gotta be a lousy thing to dream all the time. You gotta put up with it too?"

"It's weird," said Tarlyn. "There's actually two different ways I die. Or he does. But the setting's all different for each of them, and who's there."

"Probably a mystical god thing. Their ways are mysterious, and all that. Hey, know what you need? Group hug!"

Kiira had to leap into the bed-wall space to carry out his intentions, and it suddenly became very crowded. Veldrin went along with it out of default more than anything, his arms drifting outward at their leisure. They tangled; Tarlyn's hesitant touch was lent force by Kiira's enthusiastic arm pressing it further. Veldrin put his arms through where they would fit. In this time of awkward arrangements, it took him longer than it probably should have to realize that Kiira was standing eye-to-eye with him - and that his feet were flat on the floor.

He disentangled himself. Kiira looked wounded for a split second before Veldrin reached out and pulled him so close that their shoes touched. Tarlyn, who'd looked nonplussed, now looked even more so. It was Tarlyn who actually put it out in the open: "Did you just grow half a foot?"

Kiira looked at him, blinked, swept his hand flat over the top of his head and straight out until it nearly went over Veldrin's head as well. He pulled it back, stared at it. Before, it would have stopped half an inch short of Veldrin's face. "Whoa. I think so. When'd _that_ happen?"

And, as Veldrin did, he looked down. His jeans fell over his bare feet exactly the same way as before; his T-shirt fit just as it had when he was the height Veldrin had become accustomed to.

"And I don't even have to go shopping again," said Kiira, noticing this as well. "Nifty! I wonder..."

Veldrin blinked, blinked again, and barely stopped himself on stepping on Kiira, who had dwindled to the floor in the time it took to blink once. It was hard to make out details, but everything seemed to have resized itself to scale again. Another blink and Kiira darted forward to disappear beneath the hanging hem of the bedspread, his laughter trailing after him at its usual volume. Veldrin sat down and waited. Tarlyn stayed standing and waited with him.

There was only so much to investigate under the bed; Kiira soon emerged, still crowing with delight, and shot back up to a usual elven height with his arms flung out. "Ta- _da_!" Tarlyn clapped briefly. Kiira preened and surveyed himself. "Looks like this is the limit. For now, anyhow. They keep on piling up, don't they!"

"Maybe for you," said Veldrin, more irritated than he meant to sound. His primary "powers" so far, aside from the clairvoyant episodes, appeared to be failing at bladebending and giving himself away at cards.

"I'm sure Vhaeraun has neat stuff! Like that knife thing, that's pretty cool... hey, Tarlyn, wanna see my moonblade?"

***

The moonblade lay unwrapped and unsheathed on the coffee table, shining unhindered. Tarlyn leaned over for closer examination, his hands interlaced behind his back to hinder potentially fatal temptation or carelessness. _Wouldn't_ that _be a way to go._ He raised his head."Do you know what the runes mean?"

"Not by heart, but some of them." Kiira pointed to the next-to-last. "That one's Elaith Craulnober's - _that_ Elaith Craulnober's - he woke it up once for about five minutes, it's a long story. It's supposed to cause dragonfear. Basically it makes people wet themselves." His finger moved to the last one. "And _this_ was his grandson's. His daughter couldn't inherit 'cause she was a sun elf, but she married a moony. This one, it's supposed to let you send messages with your head right into other people's heads. Probably came in handy before phones and email and all that. And one of these, I remember, is supposed to make it so nothing catches you or slows you down _ever_."

"Have you tried any yet?"

"I guess I'd better." Kiira took it up and held the blade before him to survey the runes once more. "Maybe the messaging thing, I could pop something off to Mayae, but that takes a while. Email's tons faster." He gave it a few experimental swishes, not hitting anything through merest chance. "So, you wanna practice that knife thing?"

Veldrin breathed deep and counted to seven as he marshaled a list of reasons that was a terrible idea. He began with, "You remember what it did to the _last_ knife. Do you really want your family heirloom turned into a giant corkscrew?"

"It's a moonblade, it should hold up."

"And as a moonblade, it might _also_ be choosy about being touched at a distance. I'd rather not risk third-degree burns to find out. Then there's the issue of how much damage a flying sword of any kind could cause."

"I bet I can fix it," said Kiira. "Or if I can't, I'll pay for it. There aren't any _other_ heirlooms in here. Are there?"

"And _furthermore_ ,there's what'll happen if it works as it's meant to. Bladebending is a documented power. What it's _supposed_ to do is make the blade turn and run through whoever's holding it."

"Oh." Kiira glanced to the side, where Tarlyn's sword stood propped where he'd left it. "And if I just put it down we won't know if it _really_ works or not. So I guess practicing with _anything_ is gonna be tough. Except maybe butter knives, and those plastic ones you take on picnics. You think those would count?"

"I suppose it's worth a try. Are you volunteering?"

"Yup! Always wanted to know how far those could get."

***

" _Definitely_ let's go to Drannor." Kiira kept leafing through the room service menu. "No idea why I haven't gone yet. And maybe it'll jog something. And hey, let's go out around _here_ sometime. You've gotta be going crazy by now. Larissa'll know what clubs're good. Hey, Larissa!" he yelled through the open door to the other suite. Larissa had returned at some point after being told of the new meeting scheduled. "What clubs're good?"

It had been hours since the pertinent facts came into the open back at the Silverstar, Veldrin noted, and Kiira had yet to make a single "daddy" crack. Small blessings.

***

"Then there's the Uloavae brothers," Veldrin was explaining as they drank their sodas of choice; they'd ended up unanimously deciding to show Tarlyn around High Forest first. "We call them the Ulos. Jezz and Driz. Jezz is around your age, Driz is around mine. Call him Drizzt at your peril."

"There's a girl in bladesinging like that," said Tarlyn. "Lissy Bell. It's not short for Elysium."

Veldrin thought he remembered her at the party. He was confident enough to smile and say, "I guessed as much."

In his pocket, Kiira's phone began to sing. His current ringtone was a clip of a Thirdborn Son song, and the lyrics in Drow were about committing bloody familicide. If Kiira knew, he didn't care. He picked up. "Hey! Uh huh... okay... we'll be waiting... see you soon!" _Beep_. "Mayae says she and her friend're in the lobby waiting for the elevator."

"A friend."

"Uh huh. She has friends too, you know. Her roommate at Silverymoon. I think she's in on it."

Veldrin set aside his soda, opened a downloaded Weave page on his laptop, and began to sort through goddesses that might fit. Traditional allies, to start. There were the other moon goddesses - Sehanine was already taken, if it was the princess Kiira would've said so, and that left Selune. And then there was Mystra...

"You know," said Tarlyn, "I wasn't expecting _you_ to be, well, like you are. So maybe it'll be like that again for Miss Veladorn."

Eilistraee. Fuck. Did endless post-traumatic flashbacks lie in store? "Maybe."

"If it makes you feel better, I guarantee nobody's chopping any heads off," said Kiira - what color were his eyes now? First Tarlyn, now Kiira; clearly he was radiating his apprehension. He checked a strand of hair. Ordinary green. And now he was thinking of green as ordinary. "Nobody's chopping _anything_. And she's nice, I probably won't have to tell her that." He raised his voice. "Hey, guys! Mayae's almost here!"


	21. Kel Grayson

_For nine hundred years, what reason have the gods given to trust in them? If the Wall of the Faithless exists, it would circle the universe a hundred times._

_-_ Rose Cassalanter, 2500 DR

 

**KEL**

_(Scales, skeleton hand)_

_2 Mirtul_

Keldath Grayson's first failure in the employ of Arabel Emergency Services came about on a balmy Mirtul morning when a man of ninety-four dozed off on his porch and, at some point, stopped breathing. His grandson had been reading next to him and called for an ambulance once he realized. After they arrived he lingered in the background, trying and failing to calm himself. Ribs cracked under Kel's hands as he did breathing and compressions all the way to the hospital. The man hadn't started breathing back by the time they wheeled him off.

Normally, this wouldn't have been unusual. Regrettable, but no surprise. But this was _Kel_ they were talking about. He'd been working five months, and the other EMTs had been calling him Lucky for two. When Kel did the CPR and operated the defibrillator, the patient was always breathing on their own by the time they got there. When Kel was on a response team nobody couldn't be saved. They might _look_ it, at first, but after Kel got there they never were. When Kel was around, nobody died.

"So you've popped your cherry," someone said to him.

"Always happens eventually," said someone else.

And still another person said, "Well, it's a pretty good way to go, at least. Relatively speaking. In your sleep, a nonagenarian."

But what Kel thought first was _I failed_.

***

Kel had dreamed about the Fugue Plane since his eighteenth nameday, the last Feast of the Moon. At the time, he'd thought it was topical. It kept happening.

At around the same time he'd moved to Arabel, got a certification, got a job, got his first apartment. Seeking his fortune. He thought if this was it, end of the line, that'd be a pretty good fortune. He was doing something helpful in the world.

That wasn't the only thing he dreamed about. Sometimes he dreamed about a tall girl with dark hair and eyes that were either just as dark or blazing blue-white. Sometimes he dreamed about a skinny guy with dark hair that was much shorter than the girl's, with a hawk nose and a sarcastic smile. Sometimes he dreamed they were arguing; who took what side kept changing. But eventually those would stop, and he'd go on to his regularly scheduled program.

The Fugue Plane was infinite space with near-infinite people - the gods hadn't been by to whisk people away for about a thousand years. A few of the dead still beseeched them to appear; their raised voices were forlorn and grew a little bit more so with each repetition.

The funny thing about these dreams, he noticed early on, was how everything was so consistent. The people changed, but the setting was always the same, and the spires of the city in the distance never varied. There was one great tower that went on higher than the rest, for almost forever.

The people would see him, and they'd go to him. They'd reach out to him. "Is it _you_?" they'd whisper. "Do you remember?"

"I'm Kel," he'd say. "Keldath Grayson. I'm me." They'd look disappointed, but they'd keep reaching out and asking him to bless them. He wondered what would happen if he said something different. What, who, did they want to hear? He'd put his hands on theirs and say things, stupid things, like "I bless you" and "Gods watch over you," which they obviously didn't. This satisfied them.

One thing he didn't see on the Fugue Plane: the Wall of the Faithless. He asked after it, once. "Gone, and good riddance!" said the dead man he'd asked. Then he froze with fear.

"Right," said Kel. "Good riddance."

So the faithful and the faithless and the false mingled on the great featureless plain. They formed groups around too-silent campfires. He heard there was a ramshackle suburbia spreading out from the original walls of the faraway City of Judgment. In the old days, they said, it would've been as large as it needed to be. That had stopped when the gods left. When Kelemvor left.

***

Tonight he dreamed of the old man he hadn't saved, and meeting him on the Fugue Plane, which made sense. But the old man didn't reproach him for it. He patted Kel on the shoulder and said "My life's been long enough already, son." Kel guessed that in a dream he'd want to make himself feel better. He looked to the city on the horizon and began to walk.

It took much less time than he'd anticipated. He walked through the gates and the guards didn't try to stop him. He walked the wide road toward the crystal spire (or Crystal Spire, he thought, with capitals) and more people came out to watch him. "Is it him?" they asked each other. "Is it him, finally?" They went up to him again. "Is it you?"

"I'm Kel," he kept saying. "I'm Kel."

In too short a time, he reached the entrance to the spire. The guards here didn't ask. They bowed as they swung the doors open, and called him my lord. "Um, thanks," said Kel, and walked through.

Down the hall, into a high-ceilinged room with dust-coated fixtures. A cloaked figure sat at the foot of the empty throne, poring over scrolls that trailed on the floor. It (he?) looked up. _Welcome back, my lord._

"Hi," said Kel. "Nice to, um, be back."

_Do you know who you are, now?_

Knowing this was a dream made him more inclined to answer with what bubbled immediately to mind now, instead of what he'd said all his life. All of _this_ life. "I'm Kel," he said. "Kelemvor Lyonsbane. And you - you're Jergal, right?"

Jergal bowed.

Kel started walking again, up the faded gray carpet up to the gray throne. "So what happened to the Wall of the Faithless?"

 _Your last command was to dismantle it_ , said Jergal as Kel passed him. _The dead were pleased to obey._

"Well, that's good." He sat down. Nothing particularly impressive happened. "And if I can give orders around here, I'm saying it's not going back up. Why was it there in the first place, anyway? Used to give me nightmares when I was a kid, worrying I wasn't faithful enough."

_That, indeed, was its purpose. In order to discourage mortals from abandoning their worship, the gods found it necessary to maintain a punishment for faithlessness. As they were departing for an unforeseen amount of time, you decreed that the Wall was not only cruel but pointless._

"The gods can fuck themselves," said Kel. He was feeling comfortable enough to lean back and throw one leg over the other. In his dream, he was still wearing the T-shirt and shorts he'd gone to sleep in. He only really noticed it now, and he dreamed himself some jeans. "They'll have to stock up on carrots. I won't be the stick. Am I going to do some judging now, or what? I'll be about a thousand years behind, won't I? I'll have to do overtime." And then he thought: I need to be at the hospital tomorrow morning.

In the meantime, though, Jergal nodded. _You have yet to reclaim all of your power, my lord. What you may do may still be... limited._

"Oh, and another thing. When can I expect the rest of them to show up? To pick up their folks, yell at me, whatever."

 _They may be some time_.

***

_3 Mirtul_

Kel wasn't that creative with judgments at the moment. One was "Okay, you were an asshole, you're on janitor duty in the Spire until I learn mass cleaning magic. Unless you're good at hard labor, and then you can work on the city until I learn to make houses. There'll be advancement opportunities." Another was, "You're anywhere from okay to heroic. Good for you. What're you good at? You know any architects?" And, alongside: "Your patron god was Kelemvor? I mean, me? Well, would you mind bringing the Faithful coffee and cake while they wait? And asking them if they've seen anything recently godly?"

Later, "Jergal?"

_Yes, my lord?_

"Do gods have an afterlife?"

_If they do, none of those who returned have remembered it._

"I guess they had to have someplace to return _from_ ," said Kel. Jergal said nothing more.

With Jergal's guidance, he provided his petitioners with indifferent coffee and barely-sweet cake in immense quantities. That was how he'd shaped things before he left, Jergal said. Nothing delicious, nothing awful. He couldn't do much about that yet. Then he summoned heaping piles of bland gray material for them to work with. Wood, stone, bricks, and so on. A spell Jergal talked him through made it all self-renewable. After some research back in Arabel, he'd try things like lighting and pipes. One of the upsides of all the deadness meant he didn't have cause to curse the lack of indoor plumbing; the city had been left frozen in the very opening of the seventeenth century, and further technological advances had been stymied by lack of supplies.

He looked at Jergal, writing at a steady clip, and contemplated the possibility of furthering the technological catchup of the Fugue Plane by somehow bringing him a computer and something for electricity. A several-terabyte hard drive would take up less space than all that paper, and once he learned to type...

He'd been in here a while before he wondered what time it was and immediately began to go away even as he sat there. "See you!" he called. Jergal put something in his hand.

He opened his eyes. Before he could even think what a nice dream it had been, he realized he was holding Jergal's black-feathered quill pen. There were ink stains on his palm.

***

_4 Mirtul_

"Right now," he told Jergal, because it was probably important, "I'm called Keldath, Kel for short." He looked down at the chronicle of the life of Kelemvor Lyonsbane, mortal. "I don't have any brothers. My mom's alive and my dad's a decent guy. I haven't ever turned into a panther and good thing too. I'm an EMT - an Emergency Medical Technician."

 _A healer, then_.

"Yeah, you could say that. A healer. Maybe even a hero."

A second later Kel began to cry, embarrassingly loud, hands over his eyes to keep from dripping on the ancient paper. He couldn't have explained exactly why, but he did know two things as the remnants of Kelemvor Lyonsbane swirled around him and inside him. One was, he was incredibly happy. The second was, he had no idea how long it would last.


	22. Theris

_HIGH PRIESTESS OF EILISTRAEE: Now, now, let's not bicker and argue about who killed who._

\- Excerpt from "Assimilationist Orientation" sketch, _Just a Dash of Spider_

**THERIS**

_(Gloved hand, two-faced coin)_

_5 Mirtul_

In all this quasi-familial cross-pantheonic elven drama, Theris was left on the sidelines. Perhaps it would fall to him to mediate. For him to play Tyr. He laughed at the thought; Auzkovyn gave him a sharp, green-eyed glance. They were all arranged in the front room of Auzkovyn and Craulnober's original suite, trying not to look like they were watching the door in unison. Then someone actually knocked on the other side, and the pretense dwindled further. Craulnober leapt forward and threw open the door without bothering to check the peephole, crowing something in Elven.

The first one in was Miss Veladorn herself. She was quite tall, he saw, as tall as Auzkovyn or Rilashan; her build was somewhere between Auzkovyn's lean one and Rilashan's sturdy-bordering-on-heavyset. Her sword was also quite large and she wore it slung across her back, visible even past the curtain of her long, unbound hair. She smiled briefly at Craulnober before pausing in the doorway, presumably at the sight of Argith and Auzkovyn; they were probably staring back. Because he was expecting it, Theris searched her face for any resemblance to Auzkovyn's and duly found some. Where Argith and Auzkovyn could be called handsome, she could be called beautiful. She regathered herself, replied to Craulnober, and cleared the way for her friend.

Her friend was a young human woman who continued the trend of great height and good looks. Unlike Veladorn, her dark hair was gathered in a ponytail. She glanced around in the doorway as well, with curiosity instead of recognition, and stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

Craulnober was still speaking Elven. Theris picked up names; presumably he was carrying out introductions. Veladorn replied, soft and lightly chiding, and he switched to equally loud Common. "Okay, to start over. This is Veldrin, I've told you about Veldrin, he's got Vhaeraun, and Tarlyn, I haven't told you about him I don't think, he's got Selvetarm. And over there's Theris, Larissa, and Rilashan. Rilashan's Shevarash, well he _has_ Shevarash, he's sitting on Shevarash, Larissa has Sharess, and Theris has, uh -"

"Assuran," Theris put in. Leaving Craulnober to reconstruct the name would likely lead to an awkward moment.

"Pleased to meet you," said the friend. "Ariel Shessair. Mystra, I guess. I thought this would be relevant to my interests, so I tagged along."

Miss Veladorn said, "And I- "

"Mayae Veladorn, Chosen of Eilistraee," said Auzkovyn. "We _know_."

A small staring contest ensued. Theris looked between them, tall and bloody-minded, red-eyed and silver-eyed, red-haired and silver-haired, the scornful tilt of Auzkovyn's head and the weary air of Veladorn. He could definitely see them as twins.

"So hey!" said Craulnober, too loud. "I guess Theris'll want to put you on his chart and all that, you rather get it over with or d'you want to hang out some first?"

"Let's get it over with," said Shessair, not as loud but still quite loud. "Come on."

"No," said Veladorn. "I think I'd like to meet Kiira's friends first."

***

Ariel Shessair: another foundling, in her case found in the Silverymoon Palace Museum on the fifteenth of Marpenoth. "Which I looked up and apparently it's her ascension day. Mayae's adopted too," she added helpfully. "Maybe that's important."

They looked over to where Veladorn and Auzkovyn with Craulnober between them were carrying out a conversation that even from here he could tell was incredibly awkward. Theris had seen the way Auzkovyn smiled when he wanted someone to like him; his smile now was closer to  a wolf baring teeth. Open dispute was held under at the moment only for the sake of their mutual friend and Craulnober, too, could certainly notice; his own smile was faltering.

Argith was looking on as well, and from the wariness in his face and stance looked poised to do _something_ once things inevitably exploded, whether flight or fight. Fariha had removed herself to the other suite, where he could hear her putting on some of the music she'd picked up during her brief trip home. Music to be danced to. She'd invited Argith to join her away from the blast radius; for the moment, he'd declined.

Rilashan sat on the couch, wrapped up in himself and a jacket he'd left behind at Theris's apartment.

They were both first-year college students, she went on to mention. They'd only just taken their final exams before taking the next plane to Waterdeep. Wherever she was now, Tymora seemed to have turned her fickle smile on them in this small respect. Rilashan, Argith, Auzkovyn, and Craulnober were all student-age but also all in one of the free years elves had the luxury of taking. Fariha was an actress between jobs. So far, Theris had been calling in sick two days straight to Harbor Kitsch and the shelter. It was easy for them to believe.

"Hey," Shessair whispered some time after that, "I did some reading. A bit on Shevarash. Is he really, um..." 

"It's under control for the moment. And I understand his one exception was Eilistraee, so that's a little less to worry about on your friend's part."

"Okay, thanks. Mayae! Your turn!"

Mayae walked over, and her previous interlocutors watched her go, with open relief.

She was indeed also a foundling, found on the northern edge of the High Forest (as opposed to the elven community called High Forest in the same general area), on the border with Silvermarch, Midwinter of 2550. It was the same day as Auzkovyn, and in the same region. Unlike him, she'd ended up Silvermarch-raised, if not born. 

She did some whispering, too. "How well do you know Veldrin Auzkovyn?"

"I only met him today."

"He and, ah, Argith are..." Indeed, they were already well into their own animated conversation.

"Argith pursued and fought Rilashan to a standstill after he shot two innocent people," said Theris. "Rilashan and Shevarash shot them, that is, not Argith. I believe Auzkovyn found that admirable, and justifiably so."

"Yes, it is. I see that."

***

"I guess they wouldn'tve got along so well even if there wasn't this whole god thing," said Craulnober, proceeding to empty his recently-ordered glass of wine and stare at it, forlorn. Theris had only known him a few hours, actually conversed with him for far less, but that was already enough for him to find his glum attitude utterly uncharacteristic.  "Drow politics and all that. Though I guess gods have something to do with that too." He brightened slightly. "Gonna go see what they're up to over there. I bet Larissa brought polish. We can paint our toenails."

***

Theris sat down next to Veldrin Auzkovyn on the couch, not too close. "This situation, complicated as it is, seems likely to expand into Assuran's sphere of influence. I'd like to have some background on, as your friend put it, 'drow politics.'"

"Certainly." Auzkovyn flexed his fingers and went back to typing on the currently-lapped laptop. "Non-racially-specialized god of revenge, right?" So he'd done some preliminary research himself. "Well, in a blatantly transparent ploy to pander to your principles, let me just say that I'm _all_ about the revenge. Inflicted on people who are actually guilty."

Theris couldn't help it; he laughed.

Auzkovyn flashed him a smile back. "Before I go any further: religion's had a unique influence on drow societies. Part of this is because of the prevalent quasi-monotheism - you picked one god and you stuck with them, and acknowledged the other five only to insult them. Except Selvetarm, but that was a special case. Not like above where you prayed to this and that according to need."

"There are historical examples up here, too. The theocracies of Zhentil Keep, for one. Or maybe three."

"Right. So even in the present day, even people like me who aren't observant still tend to follow the philosophical paths laid out long before by people to whom the issue of which religion was _correct_ , not just for them but for the race at large, was very serious business. Still following?"

"Mm hm."

"I hate to brag, but I have an _excellent_ father. I can't imagine how the actual spermatozoa donor could possibly compare."

"I understand," said Theris, though it seemed like a non sequitur. "Frost is my stepfather's name." Nicodemus Thardeyn hadn't been physically abusive, but he and his mother's recollections agreed that he'd done just about every other thing wrong that it was possible to do in regard to both marriage and parenting. He'd been struck by lightning during the divorce, when Theris was six, and barely survived. Freak coincidence. In retrospect, he wondered. Where you found thunder...

"Mm." At some point his eyes had gone back to green. "By the way, why Assuran and not Hoar?"

"Hoar is easier to mispronounce in embarrassing ways, and makes for a terrible pun. Also, my mother's from Chessenta." And his spermatozoa donor had a mother from Chessenta too, but he kept things simple (even if it did seem somewhat unfair to his Yaya Ari, who'd always been nice until she died).

"That makes sense. Now where was I?"

"You were talking about your father and his excellence."

"Right. So my father raised me in the Vhaeraunite tradition, and I'm not biased at all when I tell you that's the best possible way in the world."

Theris allowed himself another chuckle. "By the way, don't answer if I'm prying..."

"Fair enough. What?"

"Your father adopted you by himself?" Because during this glowing endorsement he had mentioned neither a mother nor a second father.

"Yeah. Actually, that ties in too. Individual adoptions are much more common with us. It comes of back when Vhaeraunite groups would take in children. Rescued from gutters and altars and falling noble Houses, that sort of thing. At least one time where a House Patron stabbed the Matron, picked up his son, and ran. The female recruitment was very low, and only the usual statistical percentage of the males were pairing off with each other. Likely less - we're a lot more casual about that sort of thing than humans. That meant a shortage of two-parent family units, and we proved we did just fine on one."

"I see."

"I could go on all day about our culture and such, but here's a very condensed version. From the start, we've opposed the matriarchy. We find the backbiting and backstabbing that was the apparent norm for so long highly counterproductive. We've sought to leave the Underdark and settle up here. Unlike certain other, thankfully-near-extinct faiths, we practice racial tolerance. We can live with faerie elves, if they'll live with us."

"Excuse me. I'm not familiar with the term. What do you mean by 'faerie elves'? Elves that aren't drow?"

"Exactly. Some people call them "surface elves," or just "elves," but that's a gross misnomer. It erases the fact that _we're_ elves too - objective physiology studies agree we have as much right to the name as a sea elf or an avariel - and that a sizable percentage of us reside on the surface, and have for generations. As I was saying, we'll live alongside most anyone if they don't fuck with us. We have as much of a right to be here as they do."

"That all sounds good."

"That's because it is. And you'd think anyone with sense would agree, but some people -" He glanced toward the half-open door through which Mayae had walked to join the impromptu dance party whose yells and laughter drifted back to them now, and through which Rilashan had walked for reasons unknown. "- don't have sense. Now _she_ may not be all that religious either, but philosophically? Eilistraeen to the core. The Eilistraeens have always had a better reputation up here because they're appeasers, but I'll get into that later. What _they_ believe is that the matriarchy's all right just as long as you dress it up in pretty lights and sparkly goodness, and they have plenty of that. Because of the importance of religion, the most influential people in a drow community are traditionally the clergy. And up until the Assimilation - I'll get into _that_ later, too - nearly all clerics of Eilistraee were female. The rare male priests they let in had to be polymorphed female. And since polymorphing is hard to come by you don't see male clergy at all with the straight-up Eilistraeens today, only with the Assimilationists. Oh, they _claim_ it has nothing to do with keeping power in the hands of females. In fact, one of their favorite tactics is to cloak themselves in an air of righteous goodness and claim that if you take exception to that, _you're_ the one who's power-hungry."

It was possible, Theris knew, to do terrible things in the name of good. Followers of Tyr hadn't been dubbed Tyrants for nothing besides the play on words. Over in Mulhorand, Anhur had preached of disobeying evil orders but took no exception to (or made an exception for) the slavery practiced openly in the country he claimed to protect (And Theris didn't think this out of bitterness on thwarted Assuran's behalf. Not _only_ out of bitterness). This might be the case here. Too soon to tell for sure. Meanwhile, Auzkovyn's eyes and hair shifted to red as he got wrapped up in his argument.

"One of the things they go on about most is forgiveness and redemption and so on. Which sounds good in theory. But back in the day it meant things like this: take an elder daughter of a high House, in a Lolthian city. Menzoberranzan, say, or Guallidurth. Around the thirteenth, fourteenth century. She connives, she maneuvers. In that kind of world that's day-to-day, keeping your head above water. But she goes further. She abuses her brothers, knowing they don't dare to retaliate. She has a nasty habit of randomly mutilating and murdering her lovers - or rather her rape victims, because if they were to refuse her they would _certainly_ die. She's cruel to her slaves. She cuts people apart on altars and laughs at their screams."

Theris could see the punchline even as bile surged in his throat. It was a blatantly transparent ploy to pander to his principles and it worked.

"Then one day, after things don't go quite as she planned, she's asked: song or sword? Song, she says, and then she capers in the moonlight shouting that she's redeemed, praise Eilistraee. And then she's made a priestess again, and given a shiny sword, and set to take charge of males who've come thinking they've gotten away from Lolthian oppression. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

"One set of people, though, they don't forgive, because they don't think they _need_ forgiving. The big goal, for them, is to be so nice and shiny that the faeries and the Seldarine will forgive _them_ and let them be _real_ elves again. Fuck the Seldarine! Thousands of years ago, they sanctioned a miscarriage of justice that condemned a whole nation and the survivors of a second. Then they showed how very sorry they _weren't_ when they welcomed Shevarash into their ranks. Nowadays even if the faerie apologists admit they fucked up they say 'Oh, you mustn't blame _them_ , it was all the fault of those evil Vyshaan who're all dead now!' Ten gods and not one of them could do a thing about those evil, evil Vyshaan."

Theris wondered if he discussed theology this fervently with his non-drow elven friends like Craulnober. The red had grown even more intense. Theris remembered the scene back at the Silverstar, when Fariha had confronted Rilashan. How someone else seemed to speak out of his body, to call her Zandilar. Auzkovyn wasn't sounding quite so different - it could just be a heretofore-unseen side of him that came out when he talked politics or religion - but the sheer force of his hatred, the depth of his sarcasm...

"But there's hope. There's salvation, if you grovel to them in the prescribed manner. And the Eilistraeens are handing out the prescriptions. It's amazing how those priestesses could be so domineering and yet so masochistic. You must approach at a crawl, must declare how much you wish to be redeemed of what you did to survive, redeemed of every crime of your ancestors. You must do this, by the way, while trying to get close enough without being killed on the spot. They're not fussed about making it easy. Try being an elf, a _surface_ elf, any other way, and they won't have it. _They_ decide who gets to be one of the vaunted People. Did you ever hear the bit of trivia that 'not an elf' also means 'not a person'?

"Take fourteenth-century Myth Drannor. Sacked and abandoned centuries previous. Nobody goes there but adventurers who're lucky to come back. Most of the faeries have bailed out for Evermeet, and more are packing their bags. House Jaelre and Clan Auzkovyn find their way out of the Underdark, find their way to Cormanthor. Full of monsters, but they've faced monsters before. They settle in, and take on something no one else wanted.

"And the faeries start sailing back to Faerun fast as their ships can go. They still pack their bags but now they're going to Cormanthor. You see, only when the drow have it do they realize they want it back."

"At least that story has a happy ending."

"It does, no thanks to them. They spread _their_ stories for long enough. The Eilistraeens bow to the virtuous and pure faeries, so they too are virtuous and pure. The Vhaeraunites will never bow again. Clearly they are blackhearted evil.

"And then we move further along the fourteenth century. The Eilistraeens and their goddess look around and think that hmm, they _could_ do with a male auxiliary. But they're not going to back down with their _own_ clergy. The best thing to do, then, is co-opt someone else's worshippers. It seems to work for Lolth, with Selvetarm. But they're not going to go to all that trouble with binding spells and a convenient demon to be used as bait, especially since _he_ saw that happen already, just as _she_ had, and isn't going to fall for the same trick. They go straight to the point of the sword: cut Vhaeraun to pieces and take his followers as the spoils.

"So that was the Assimilation. And from then on when the priestesses wanted to do something that wouldn't look so virtuous, something that might leave bloodstains on their dresses, they had priests they could order to do it. Priests they could still keep out of their little moonlight dance parties. There was a pretense of equality, but everyone knew who was in charge. Nobody else might've seen what happened - nobody else until now - but it was a female wearing the mask. The Masked _Lady_ , they said.

"... so, in short, that's why I disappointed Kiira so badly tonight. I can't shrug it off as a difference in opinion. Especially not when the stakes are this high."

***

As Theris entered the other suite, Craulnober handed Veladorn a bottle of nail polish.

No one was dancing at the moment; they were seated around the room, letting their nails dry (except for Veladorn, who was just beginning as she nodded to Theris). So Craulnober had meant it, and gone through with it. As had everyone else in the room (Rilashan was nowhere to be seen; he'd likely retreated to the bedroom). Theris noted idly that each had a different color, though all had the same glittery texture. Fariha's hands and feet were done in deep red. Craulnober's were brilliant green, and Shessair's were pale blue. Argith, who looked somewhat embarrassed as he brought up a hand in greeting, had only had his feet done; they were darker blue. Veladorn's were, with care, turning silver one by one. Theris didn't see any other bottles sitting about; the apparent total cleanup was surprising, given some of the participants.

This incongruity was quickly explained. "Want a go?" said Craulnober, with a wave. "I guess you'd want black if you want any, tell me if I'm wrong. Just give Mayae a minute to finish and I can switch it."

"No thank you."

Craulnober shrugged. "Your loss. Oh, and you're invited to our nameday party. Larissa's and mine. Midsummer _and_ Shieldmeet. It'll be _epic_. Once we decide where to go. And Veldrin's invited too, if you're heading back there could you tell him?"

"Actually - Miss Veladorn, I was wondering if I could discuss something with you."

She finished the little finger of her left hand before looking up. "Certainly. What is it?"

"Religious-political differences in drow society," he said. It sounded a bit like the title of his last paper at the University of Waterdeep, only it wasn't a subtitle preceded by his best effort at a witty title. "I've already consulted Mr. Auzkovyn, and I'd like your perspective."

He had to wonder how willing he'd be to hear it. Assuran wasn't known for being forgiving; his redemptions tended to be earned in blood.

Veladorn sighed. "And you'll have it. I'll just need to figure out where to start."

Craulnober said, fast, "Okay, better for me to do the inviting anyway," and crossed over and through the doorway to join Auzkovyn. Larissa seemed to have one ear turned to them and both eyes on her fingernails. Shessair was holding up her handheld and studiously not looking at them. Argith looked about, then stood and followed Craulnober.

Vhaeraun and Selvetarm had died on the same day, the winter solstice of 1375. Selvetarm at the hands of a priestess of Eilistraee wielding one of her sacred weapons, Vhaeraun at the hands of Eilistraee herself ( _cut to pieces_ , Auzkovyn had said). He wondered how much accord they'd be in on the matter, how much revenge was on their minds, how much Auzkovyn and Argith were listening to them.

"I suppose I should establish one thing, first," said Veladorn. "There's his words and then there's the historical facts. Vhaeraun was evil, Mr. Frost. He might not have thought so, and he might not have reveled in it as some others did, but he was. He's been dead a long time and his current followers may have made something good of it, but that doesn't mean they were always blameless - and the benign ones now tend to glorify those who came before, imagining they held the same things dear. I'm sure some of them would be horrified to know what they praised."

Theris waited for her to clarify and wondered how much she'd overheard of Auzkovyn's rant, to allow her to formulate specific counterarguments. He knew Assuran hadn't been so concerned about associating with other deities classified evil, either. There was the Nameless Banshee, there was Beshaba (the Doombringer and the Lady Doom), there was Shar... scratch Shar.

"On a mortal level, it dates back to the time of the Crown Wars. The Vyshaan did terrible things. It's true. But they were only one House, and they were punished, and the Ilythiiri were just as bad if not worse. They cited Miyeritar's innocence for their own purposes. At that time, Vhaeraun was just another tyrant, fighting for dominance with Lolth and Ghaunadaur. It wasn't until after the Descent that he began to present himself as a liberator." As she spoke she finished her fingernails, recapped the bottle, and spread her hands to dry.

"Some of the dogma might sound innocuous, even laudable. But what they made of it wasn't. They wanted to destroy the matriarchy, but only to raise a patriarchy in its place. They preached equality, but their clergy was always overwhelmingly male. All known exceptions were former priestesses of Lolth used as double agents. Any female children raised among them never had such a chance."

So far, it seemed to Theris, they were roughly even on that score. She, too, seemed to accept the premise that the composition of the clergy was the true indicator of who held power - at least in Auzkovyn's case.

"And as for their attitude toward other races - they might not have wanted to exterminate, but they still wanted to conquer. Their clergy _also_ consisted entirely of those with drow blood. They sought to unite all elves, so that all those elves would then bow to _them_. They tolerated other races as long as _they_ were paid tribute as the best of them. And that tolerance had its limits, too. Did he tell you that for as long as Vhaeraun was alive, his followers were forbidden to associate with dwarves and gnomes?"

Drow were the first thing to jump to mind when most thought of the Underdark, but there were other major players. _Callarduran Smoothhands_ \- one of Shevarash's allies, and the patron deity of the svirfneblin. Deep gnomes, in common parlance (and perhaps, miles below, Callarduran Smoothhands guided someone they'd yet to meet). And, as he recalled from the story of the Dark Court, there were the duergar - the gray dwarves. "That seems counterproductive. It would've cut them off from at least two likely allies against the Lolthians."

"Yes, it would have. But for all their talk of counterproductivity, of behaving sensibly, they could also be amazingly petty without a trace of irony. And while they were remarkably unforgiving, they couldn't imagine what _they_ might have done that required forgiveness. Vhaeraun was also a god of thieves, and when they came to the surface many of them lived through banditry. They complained that the people of the surface refused to accept them, all while they continued to rob and kill them. They claimed it was the only way to survive, but the existence of the followers of Eilistraee proved otherwise."

"Were the Eilistraeens commonly accepted at the time?"

"Not universally, no. But more than _they_ were, and for good reason. Today, for instance, the new breed of Vhaeraunites talk about the reclaiming of Myth Drannor as if it was a hard-fought triumph on their ancestors' part. But that was after the Union, in the time of the Masked Lady."

"By the Union, you mean what Mr. Auzkovyn calls the Assimilation."

"Yes. Before that, all the likes of House Jaelre managed to accomplish was antagonize the elves who also sought to restore it. It was the work and example of Unitarians that legitimately granted drow entrance to the city after Seiveril's Crusade. They take credit for the work of Unitarians when it suits them. Nor do they acknowledge how much they drew from Eilistraee's teachings in the time between the Union and the Half-Moon Schism - that's the name for the redivision of faiths after the Departure."

"About the Union."

"Yes?"

"Mr. Auzkovyn considers it an act of murder. Presumably that's not the Eilistraeen view."

"That's a difficult question. There weren't any witnesses besides the gods themselves, and rumors abounded. In the United period, the prevalent view became that Eilistraee and Vhaeraun agreed to join forces against the greater evil of their mother, and marked the alliance by joining their spirits as well - the twins-become-one. It makes a good story, very uplifting, and reflects the partnership and eventual integration of the two factions - it _was_ a partnership, not a matter of conquest and domination. But I have a unique perspective, and I'm afraid it wasn't as hopeful as all that. From what I've seen, Eilistraee killed Vhaeraun. That's true. But it wasn't murder, Mr. Frost. It was self-defense."

***

"Do you think you'll see her again? The agent of the Nameless?"

"I think so." Rilashan eschewed the second bed in the room, likely out of some further hair-shirted desire to do penance. Instead, he'd seated himself cross-legged against the wall in the half-dark. "I'll be ready for her."

Apparently Assuran had been the sometimes-ally of both gods. Theris had to wonder how he managed that. Perhaps the same way Shar had managed both Shevarash and Vhaeraun. Judicious amounts of two-timing might have been involved, maneuvering them about so that they never ended up in the same room of the Doomcourt. He found the image vaguely irreverent and also hilarious.

It was quite late. Veladorn and Shessair had acquired another suite down the hall on Craulnober's card, so they had a ladies' room after all. Fariha had gone home, and there wasn't any more music in the front room.

Veladorn had said more, after that. She'd presented what was good about Eilistraee, not just what was bad about Vhaeraun. The way she put it was quite appealing, though Theris acknowledged it didn't fit with his personal views. Too forgiving, as expected. Too optimistic.

He considered asking Rilashan for another third-party opinion. An opinion from Shevarash would likely be worse than useless, but that wasn't all Rilashan was. "Before all this..."

"Yeah?"

"Did you have any specific opinions on drow? Their religion, and so on. What you knew of it."

He mulled this over for so long Theris was starting to think he'd mull it right into his next nightmare. "I didn't really think about it. They were just there same as anyone, and sometimes they'd say things, do things, and here and there I'd pick up something. Elorand and Wyk, they'd say things like swear to Vhaeraun, swear to Eilistraee. Wyk said Vhaeraun, Elorand switched off. They took me to a bar once. It was called Ellaniath. They said a lot of bars and clubs're called Ellaniath, but this one was in Drannor and one of the best of them."

"That sounds familiar."

"It's where, um, Vhaeraun used to live. In the planes. The plane was Carceri, I think. The thing about it, I remember, was you'd never remember what happened in there after you left. All you could do was guess. That's part of why they use the name so much. What happens in Ellaniath stays there, is the idea. That's the kind of thing I picked up." He paused. "This one, it had a back room where all the lights were off. Meant for drow, though I guess in theory it would've worked for a dwarf or a gith or even an orc. And it worked for me. They were meaning to tease me a little, and they were a bit shocked I could see that well. Just a bit. They knew me since I was a kid, and they knew I kept winning Blind Run."

He had better ask this now. If this went as Rilashan and the Nameless surely wanted, it might be one of his last chances. Now, when time was so short, he kept thinking of things he wanted to know. "If you don't mind my asking. Do you remember anything strange from when you were a kid, besides good eyes? I think I may have electrocuted my father."

"Oh. Um. Did he deserve it?"

"I like to think so."

"Well... my mother always said I was the quietest baby she'd ever seen, the quietest toddler, the quietest kid. She said I always looked sad. And then, when I got older, I made up for it a million billion times..."

Someone knocked on the bedroom door. They looked toward one another. "Come in," said Theris.

It was Argith in his own set of sweats, something in his hands that was probably his sword. He looked between Theris under the covers, Rilashan against the wall, and the other, untouched, bed. "Is that taken? I have a condition. Can't Reverie."

"It's free," said Rilashan.

"Okay. Thanks." He closed the door behind him. Theris could make out the general motions of him leaning the presumable-sword against the wall, getting in and pulling the quilt over his head.

Seconds passed. Rilashan said, "... can't Reverie? Shit. Sorry."

"Nah. I do okay. If I'm missing something I've never actually, um, missed it." More seconds passed. Theris rolled over prone, adjusting the position of his head, neck, and arms in search of optimal results. "Lemme know if I'm too noisy."

"It's no problem."

"No problem here either," said Theris.

Eventually Theris slept. He supposed at some point before or after Argith had done the same, and Rilashan had slipped into Reverie prepared for what he might find.

***

When he opened his eyes Shardax Telenna sat on the couch with no one beside him, in the dark, playing a game on his phone.

Telenna's apartment was much more modestly appointed than (Kren) Auzkovyn's, but what Theris could make out looked comfortable enough. Telenna himself didn't. His finger slid about on the touch screen, sliding objects into formation. He wasn't playing it to have fun, Theris could tell from his illuminated face. He was playing it to eat time.

He remembered the face from his research. It wasn't an innocent face, exactly, but it was mild; when he smiled that did something to relieve its sharp angles. When Kren Auzkovyn smiled, his smile was just as sharp and emphasized those angles further.

Theris wondered what he'd fallen in love with. What combination of wit, good looks, personality, money... did Auzkovyn tell good jokes, did he pet dogs on the street?

Someone knocked on the door. Telenna jerked upright, stared toward it as if next someone would knock it down. When that didn't happen he turned off the phone and stood. Another few seconds, another knock, and he walked to the door.

There was a woman on the other side. A drow woman whose eyes were narrowed against the light of the hallway. She wore a long black dress or at least a long black skirt, the hemline visible beneath the black raincoat with a hood that covered most of her hair. One hand was in her coat pocket. Her other hand gleamed with silver rings.

Theris thought, _oh._

She said something, very brief. Theris could pick up two words, one name. _Are you Shardax Telenna?_ he thought she was asking.

Telenna replied. It was probably _Yes, and you?_

She said something else he tried hard to catch, _usstan tlun Nathshalee T'sarran d'Sshamath_. Said something still more and brought her hand out of her pocket, curled loosely in a fist. There were just as many rings on this hand. She held it out, palm up, and opened her hand.

A rat's skeleton lay on her palm. As they watched, the three of them, it raised its head.

***

_6 Mirtul_

He woke. The bedroom lights were on. Rilashan stood by the switch, turned and looked at him.

"Nathshalee T'sarran d'Sshamath?" said Theris.

"Yes," said Rilashan. "Nathshalee T'sarran, of Sshamath."

Argith mumbled something and turned on the bed. At some point he'd kicked off most of the blankets.

***

Theris asked, "What did they say, after the rat? After she came in?"

"She quizzed him about religion," said Auzkovyn. "He said 'Vhaeraun, I suppose, I've never really thought about it.' That explains me. And for you, I guess, the revenge part. She told him she was going to take some revenge on the man who killed Kren, not _specifically_ but it'd come to her attention he'd done that one too. Would he consider really thinking about it, and converting if she delivered. And did he want to come see it."

"She thinks it was only one man, then," said Theris. _And she thinks it was Rilashan_. "Did he say yes?"

"He said if he had the time. I think it's yes, with room to duck out."

Three of them standing around in the front room - Auzkovyn had come calling not long after Theris woke. When he'd left the bedroom Argith was sitting up in bed, still mumbling incoherently, and presumably in the other suite Craulnober was doing something like it. Theris had sent text messages to Shessair and Veladorn and Fariha. Fariha soon texted back: _WTF_. _Coming._

Veladorn and Shessair arrived side by side, Shessair still rubbing her eyes, Veladorn carrying her sword, which made for quite the visual contrast with her nightgown. "The Nameless Banshee?" said Veladorn. "You had a vision?"

"Mr. Auzkovyn and I," said Theris. Another rehearsal, because once everyone else woke up and arrived he'd be doing it over again. "It looks like we saw the same thing, though he was the only one who understood most of it. She's figured out that Miss Kenafin and Auzkovyn's - Kren Auzkovyn's - deaths were connected, and she's offered Mr. Telenna - that Auzkovyn's lover - a chance to watch vengeance be done."

Veladorn's mouth thinned. "She seems very certain about that."

"I guess that was after she talked to me," said Rilashan.

Her head jerked. "She talked to you?"

"In Reverie," said Rilashan. "I told her I knew I'd done something terrible, and I'd do what I could to make up for it. That surprised her, I think. But after a bit she said if I really meant it, then I'd go to Miss Kenafin's crypt in the City of the Dead and wait for her tonight. So I'll be doing that."

Auzkovyn turned to Rilashan as well. For the first time since those two laid eyes on each other, Theris thought he was looking at him through his green eyes with something like approval.

Veladorn wasn't approving. More in the way of appalled. "You're going to meet the Nameless Banshee's servant in one of the places she'll be strongest?"

"I gather that was kind of the point of going there," said Auzkovyn.

"I'll go with you," said Theris. "I need to tell her -"

"You're not going!" said Veladorn. "Neither of you, you _can't_!"

"And why not?" said red-eyed Auzkovyn. "They can go where they like, they're grown men. Who died and made you queen of Toril? All hail the Silver Queen!"

Their voices rose inexorably, and it wasn't long before they stopped considering whether their argument was understood by those around them. Shessair had her phone out, obviously recording. Theris wasn't sure why she was doing it, but maybe afterward he could watch it and try again to understand.


	23. Tarlyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you would rather not read it, Veldrin uses a word with misogynistic associations that is generally considered worse than the canonical use of "bitch." In-verse he'd have a long explanation containing terms like "female privilege." After he'd calmed down.

_  
You can find a god of nearly everything in our various pantheons, but you know what we really could've used back in the day? A god of therapists._

_-_ Weave blogger Fini'they Jaelre, 2584 DR

**TARLYN**

_(Spider, sword, mace)_

_5 Mirtul_

"What's he talked to you about?"

"This and that," said Tarlyn. He heard his voice as it was when he spoke staring at his shoes in front of teachers and carers and social workers about whoever he'd bitten or kicked this time: sullen, on the border of Uncooperative and Defiant and Oppositional. "Being friends. Teaching me Drow. Told me a funny story about the dorms at Drannor. Him and Kiira mean to take me sometime. High Forest before that. Eryndlyn after that."

"Eryndlyn?"

"Yeah. It's so close to Rhyman but I've never been. Isn't that weird?"

"I suppose so," said Miss Veladorn.

"Or maybe we were thinking we could do Eryndlyn for my nameday."

"Your nameday?"

"Kythorn sixth. We looked on the Weave and three days later's the thousandth anniversary of the Warblade Compact. You heard of that?"

"I think so."

"It was this important treaty they signed after the gods left and they got rid of the Lolthians, two out of three of the main religions they had there. They sealed it by trading swords. So that'll be big. They're going to take the real swords from the first time and switch them again."

("And maybe," Veldrin had said, "we can settle if it's the real thing. If either of them is, for that matter." Because the first time, according to the Weave, the Selvetargtlin of Eryndlyn traded a sword they said Selvetarm dropped while he was rampaging around the place in the Time of Troubles, and the Vhaeraunites traded what they said was the Crescent Blade they'd stolen from the Eilistraeens, and somehow anything that could've been insulting about either of those had gotten cancelled out. And meanwhile the big temple of Eilistraee here in Waterdeep had another Crescent Blade; they'd said for centuries it was the real thing, that the one in Eryndlyn was fake. Of course the guy who said he'd stolen it had said _he'd_ had a fake commissioned, one that was maybe a bit too good, and that he'd switched them out so he could get underground before they could figure out what he'd done)

"Mm." He could tell she didn't much like the thought and he couldn't bring himself to be sorry about it. Especially since, though it _did_ sound like the most interesting nameday he'd ever had, he'd said it partly because he guessed she wouldn't want to hear it.

He'd given her the best chance he could think of. He'd really believed what he told Veldrin – maybe this could be different too. Whoever was carrying around Eilistraee in her head, he might get along with them even better than with Veldrin because once, according to that printout, Selvetarm had liked her. Maybe loved her. Used to hang around with her a lot, before Zanassu and Lolth.

He didn't feel much liking now, in the front or the back of his head. She was nice enough, as Kiira had said. Smiled nicely in the right places, said the nice things, but it wasn't enough for him, didn't stop the crawling up his spine right to the place where the back of his neck turned into the back of his head. What _would_ be enough for him?

Maybe it had been better with Veldrin, and Vhaeraun, because there'd just about always been that hate, larger or smaller. Probably Selvetarm hated ever since he asked something like "Do I have a father? What's he like?" and someone told him, "Your father tried to kill your mother, and he did it when it would've killed you, too, before you were even born." So when Veldrin wasn't like that, Selvetarm might find it suspicious but to Tarlyn it came off as a pleasant surprise. If you never really trusted someone, liked someone, loved someone, they couldn't hurt you that bad in the heart.

Kiira and Larissa and Miss Shessair and Miss Veladorn had been dancing near Larissa's boom box for a while and after Miss Veladorn went over to him they'd started dancing together. Larissa was taller than Kiira, and strong, and she could pick him right off the floor and spin him. They both thought that was funny. Miss Shessair was taller than both of them, but not as strong as Larissa.

According to the other printouts, Sharess wasn't all Selvetarm's mother. Zandilar was about a third of her and the other two-thirds were Bast and Felidae. Felidae had cats. Bast was from Mulhorand; she had cats too, and also some war on the side. He remembered what Larissa had said about her grandmother in Calimshan and her grandfather in Aglarond, which had the Yuirwood inside it. Earlier today, on the way to the hospital, Tarlyn had asked if she had a grandparent or something from Mulhorand too. "Actually, yeah," she'd said. "Grandma Vesper came from Skuld. Her mom was an elf, her dad was authentic Mulan. Good catch."

Miss Veladorn said, "What's it like there? In Rhyman?"

"Um." For most of his life it was just _there_ ,a backdrop, the place where he did things and things happened to him. "Very... elven. Lots of heritage and history and all that." He'd seen the ads, and the tour groups going by.

"Kiira said a bit ago that you're a bladesinger?"

"An apprentice, yeah."

"You should be proud of yourself."

"I guess." Maybe it would be more impressive if it was _real_ bladesong, from before the gods left. If he could do that, with the magic and everything, that'd be something to be proud of – he could at least be proud that he hadn't been torn to bits by angry elves and that Corellon Larethian hadn't come rushing down from Arvandor to smite his blasphemous ass (though depending on how he imagined the scenario, Corellon could still've rushed down to smite Selvetarm and taken Tarlyn with him. Collateral damage).

"Have you spoken to Princess Seniadra?"

From the talking around Theris's chart after seeing Miss Veladorn's picture, he'd learned Seniadra Moonflower was descended from one of the younger children of King Lamruil of Evermeet. Hers was probably Sehanine Moonbow. Kiira had talked to her in Reverie, he knew, and Ilithaine had talked to her a little bit before his Reverie got hijacked by the Nameless Banshee screaming at him how he was going to die. "No."

"Oh."

"But then, I can't Reverie. Larissa can't either, and she hasn't." Though Veldrin could, and he hadn't. He didn't seem too sad about it, said maybe it was because Sehanine was still pissed at Vhaeraun. It sounded like Vhaeraun didn't get along much with moon goddesses.

"Really? That's too bad."

"Doctor told me once a lot of drow can't." Drow and people who had a bit of something else that wasn't regular elf; mostly that something else was human, like with Larissa. "But I guess you can."

"Still, it's... if you don't mind my asking, do you have very many friends?"

"More than I had two days ago."

He guessed Marteil Floshin counted as a friend, or trying to be one, even if he'd kept twitting him and forgot he didn't have a mother. He'd said tokens had to stick together. He'd bought Tarlyn the crescent moon for his hair, back on Evermeet. And he hadn't twitted him at the hospital this morning. _Thanks for defending my honor and all,_ he'd said, sitting up with his shirt off and his wing in a bandage bundle, poking at the red gelatin on his tray.

And Larissa Fariha. _I might not know much about mothering, apparently it turned out pretty crappily last time around_... He agreed that Larissa being motherly at him and him being sonly at her would be weird as the Hells even if she wasn't only five years older than him (half-human nothing, to manage that she'd have to have been half- _kobold_ ), but he guessed maybe they could make better friends than family.

Kiira Craulnober was like Larissa. On the outside, his hair was black and his eyes were green and his smile was wide. He moved fast and talked fast and he went through things fast. _Group hug!_ He was ridiculously generous even if that was because he could afford to be, because he didn't have to be. Some people, Tarlyn knew, had a lot of money and just _sat_ on it.

And Veldrin Auzkovyn had come right out and said, yeah, the guy in my head hates the guy in your head and vice versa but it doesn't have to be that way for _us_. He'd said, it'd be great to be your friend.

Miss Veladorn hadn't even mentioned the whole head-chopping thing. It hung around in the room like a full-grown dragon trying to keep from knocking over anything with its tail. Instead she said things like, "Do you think you'll be going anywhere else in Cormanthor?"

"Sure. He says it's beautiful at night."

"Well, yes, it is. It's beautiful all times of day."

"You've been there too?"

"Once, for Midsummer."

"Veldrin goes there to go to college." He said this, too, because he guessed she wouldn't want to hear it.

"It's a prestigious institution. I chose Silverymoon, myself, because it was closer to home and I liked the atmosphere."

"Uh huh."

"What do you think you'll study?"

She was assuming he'd go to college at all. He didn't point that out; struck by a terrible idea, he picked it up and sprinted away with it. He tried to slip himself into talking like Kiira, fast and easy. "Film studies, maybe, I've seen a lot of movies, and mostly I like them. Or history. All those stories. Veldrin's told me some that sound really interesting. Like all the stuff about Eryndlyn. The Warblade Compact, the Night of Silver Blades, that kind of thing." According to the same site that talked about the Compact, the Night of Silver Blades was what they called the winter solstice, when Vhaeraun and Selvetarm both got killed. Eryndlyn had had both in the same city, out in the open, so it was a lot easier for them to notice the coincidence. It was a bit of mourning and hoping together. "It's all very inspirational, how people learn to get along. And he told me this funny story about the dorms at Drannor, the Memorial Halls and all that, that's history too." He tried to grin like Marteil would grin. "Maybe I can mix it up. Historical film studies. Those historical Drannor movies about people like, oh, Jezz the Lame."

"I see." She said it in that careful neutral way he could already tell she took on when she really wanted to say something not so nice. "Well, it's good to get fresh views on things... has Veldrin ever discussed social issues with you?"

"Like religion and masculism and stuff like that?"

"Like that."

"Not really." There was no answer to that she'd like, he thought, maybe unfairly. What he thought was if he'd said yes she'd think of it as Veldrin proselytizing and mixing up an impressionable mind, and since he'd said no now she was thinking Veldrin was drawing him in without letting him know that Veldrin's thoughts on social issues were sick and wrong.

"If you ever need anything..."

And he could tell what Miss Veladorn was getting at. She didn't like Veldrin about as much as Veldrin didn't like her, that much was obvious. She was thinking, and almost saying, that he was so hard up for friends that when Veldrin showed up he'd jumped for it without seeing the snare. But _she_ could be his friend, she was saying, his _real_ friend.

And maybe two days ago he would've jumped at _that_. But now, when he already _had_ people who could be his friends, had a friend she didn't want him to have, forget it.

***

Even Larissa and Kiira were danced out eventually, and they moved on to showing off things they could do so far. Miss Shessair made the bedroom door swing open and shut three times. Ilithaine was in there and Tarlyn wondered what he thought was happening. Kiira stood back-to-back with Tarlyn, who'd already seen it, so it was easier for the others to see how he changed sizes until it got really obvious and Tarlyn had to try not to step on him. Miss Veladorn called up a bright pale flame in her hand – moonfire, she said. Larissa flew up and tapped the ceiling right next to the round lamp. She probably would've touched the lamp except that it was hot.

That reminded Tarlyn of what _he_ could do. So when they turned to him, he took off his shoes and socks and walked to the wall. He started with his hands, splaying them flat and thinking _spiders,_ thinking _sticky_. Then his bare feet, one at a time – even if he could do it with his shoes on (he probably could) he bet it would've left tracks. He made his way up the wall and across the ceiling, stopping like Larissa had near the lamp. He looked down.

Kiira grinned up at him. Miss Shessair looked fascinated. Miss Veladorn looked blank. Larissa flew to him with a hand raised and he detached one of his own hands long enough so they could clap them together. They got it on the first try. Kiira cheered at that.

Through the doorway to the other room they could hear Veldrin saying, loud, "Fuck the Seldarine!"

Miss Veladorn looked to Kiira. He shrugged. "I'm sure he means 'company in the other room excepted.'"

Tarlyn wondered if she'd start in on Kiira now. After all he'd been friends with Veldrin a lot longer. Probably not, he figured. Erevan Ilesere might be a bit whacked in the stories Tarlyn remembered, but he was very Seldarine. His general goodness credentials were assured.

***

Veldrin said yes, he'd go to the epic two-day nameday party. Kiira immediately began pulling together the rest of the guest list. "There's Madh of course, there's Fomoyn and Narimea –" Cousins on his mother's side, Tarlyn remembered. "– and the Nimersyls, and Shintle and Lana, and I'd say the Ulos but I guess they'd say no, unless you had a word with them or something..."

Veldrin said, "If I had a word with them, the word would be that I support their decision entirely, including if they decide to have fifty-eight pizzas delivered to your door."

"That's a long word."

As he began to scribble down the names much slower than he said them, Veldrin started the lessons in Drow. Things you'd find in lesson one of a textbook. While he was at it, he did the hand signs. "You don't have to remember them right off," he said. "Just want to try building the association, so if you _want_ to learn you've seen it already, it's easier."

"I want to learn."

"That's great."

 _Uss, draa, llar_ ; the counting signs seemed near-universal. Introductions, keeping it formal for now: _Vendui, usstan tlun..._ For Veldrin: I am Veldrin Auzkovyn of the High Forest. For him: I am Tarlyn Argith of Rhymanthiin _._ Then, pointing with blue eyes, what turned out to mean: That is Kiira. He is my friend, and he is an idiot.

"Hey!" said Kiira. "I might not get exactly what you're saying but I can read a phrasebook as well as anyone!" But he was still smiling. Kiira knew the words for _idiot_ and for _friend_ , as well as a general array of the curses that weren't also racial slurs.

Kiira eventually persuaded Veldrin to have his toenails done too, once he pointed out (as he had to Tarlyn) that he could just put on socks if he turned out to hate it. Veldrin picked gold and didn't put on socks after it dried. By the time Tarlyn was full of yawns and had to get up and find a bed, he still hadn't put them on.

***

"Can't Reverie?" said Ilithaine. "Shit. Sorry."

He was telling the truth when he said he'd never really missed it, not on his own. Not without people who acted like he should miss it, who tutted and were sorry when he had to turn in sooner and get up later.

A while later he said, "Ilithaine?"

He stirred, spoke without raising his head. "Yeah?"

"On your thirty-fifth nameday did you go to a restaurant and dance on the table?"

"... how do you know?"

"Veldrin thought he might've seen you. He was in college that year. It was his nameday too."

"Oh. That makes sense. I wouldn'tve seen him. Too busy dancing on the table."

***

His dreams weren't as bad tonight. There were still swords swinging and dice rolling and Eilistraee's face (Mayae Veladorn's face) with its cool silver eyes looking down at him and Halisstra Melarn holding out something (he didn't know how accurate her face was, though Selvetarm would know), but there were others to put up against those.

Like the one where he dreamed he was a kid, a really small kid, hiding in the big closet at one of the homes, playing with the spiders on the corner cobwebs behind the shoe rack and the row of dangling dry-clean-onlys. He'd used to talk to them then, pretend they talked back, maybe they even had. In the dream they were definitely talking. They told spidery little jokes. He kept thinking, what if they find me here, what if they hear me laughing? Which had actually happened, in real life. He remembered the carer back then opening the door and shoving back the row of clothes and screaming, and once he'd pulled Tarlyn out he ran for a broom to sweep and smash (Tarlyn for once hadn't screamed back. He'd saved one spider, in his hands, and put it out in the backyard, and told it sorry). But that never happened in the dream. They just kept playing.

The rest were mostly the kind of weird dreams people normally got and just went with. Like the one where he was lying back on a raft on a lake and Jezz the Lame (as played by Imor Khalazza with a leg brace in a movie he'd seen eight years ago) was rowing with his kukri and Drizzt Do'Urden (as played by Val Tlintarn with purple contacts, three years ago, and another thing Larissa said on the way to the hospital, talking about Drannor actors, was "I'd definitely fuck Val Tlintarn." It probably would've sounded weird coming from a mother but it wasn't so Tarlyn was okay with it and after all Tlintarn, as Marteil would say, was _smoking_ ) was rowing with one scimitar and somehow it seemed to be working.

***

Something had happened, he knew, something important. Theris's dream, Ilithaine's dream. He needed to get up and hear it explained. He rubbed his eyes and thought he managed to rub a bit more sleep away. The lights were on. He squinted at the radio-clock on the nightstand between the beds. Four-something. Voices outside, past the half-open door. He couldn't quite make out the words, but he knew the voices. They got louder.

Then, as he swung his legs off the bed, they started to yell. Two of them. Veldrin, he knew, and Miss Veladorn. He could make out the words now, each syllable. He still couldn't understand them, though they sounded like he should. Drow, he thought, with spatterings of Elven here and there, just enough so that the whole of the thing seemed to linger only inches out of his mental grasp. He got off the bed and made for the door. He listened even though he couldn't understand, as if he _would_ understand if he just tried harder.

Selvetarm would know what this meant, he thought. A god of drow would _have_ to know what it meant.

When he thought this hard enough something slid into place, something unlocked, something opened, and he, too, knew what it meant. At least, he knew what the _words_ meant.

"You can affordto. I know he promised not to touch a single silver hair on the head of Father's dearest little princess or any of her chosen ones, so what do _you_ have to worry about? What does it matter to you if an Auzkovyn dies? What does it matter to you if he empties Myth Drannor on another bloody crusade? You can sit back and be happy he's killing your enemies. Wonderful bargain you've got!"

He knew Veldrin had never met Miss Veladorn before. They'd been raised apart. Surely if that were so they wouldn't call the same person Father, unless –

"Is that all you can think about, gains and losses? About what spiteful satisfaction you'd get sending someone to his death? At the hands of the _Nameless Banshee_?"

He looked through the gap in the open door. In the front room he saw Veldrin and his red hair, and Miss Veladorn and her silver hair, and Theris frowning, and Ilithaine with large eyes, and Miss Shessair gaping while she held up her phone. Miss Shessair looked sidewise, noticed him, raised her free hand and dropped it.

"He gets another chance at things, gets his fucking happy family and his fun and his pretty peaceful Cormanthor, and he goes off shooting people all over again. Needed fucking _Sharess_ to knock sense into him! Even _he_ agrees he's got to pay for what he's done! You didn't have enough to do just washing your chosen _drow_ clean of the blood of their brothers and sons? Now you've got to throw yourself in front of _fucking Shevarash_? Were you _always_ this stupid?"

"Were you always this selfish, this blind, this arrogant? You think you're perfect, you think you don't need redeeming, _nothing_ you do can ever be wrong, your very touch makes it pure, but anything anyone else does that isn't what you like is unforgivable. You complain that the world doesn't fall at your feet! That it doesn't tamely submit to your bandits and your murderers!"

"You're one to talk of tamely submitting! All my fault, you say, all my fault, I'm sorry for making you curse and spit on me! Except when it's all your fault, all your fault, if you were just nicer they wouldn't spit on you and curse you and hate you and kill you! They wouldn't swear oaths to wipe you out of existence if only you redeemed yourself for existing!"

"They never would've needed to redeem themselves if it weren't for the likes of you!"

Veldrin's hair blazed, the brightest he'd ever seen. His back was to Tarlyn, but surely his eyes blazed too. Miss Veladorn was holding her sword. Still sheathed. He reached out and found the hilt of his, against the wall. Reach would be the issue. She was so much taller and her bastard sword was longer, he'd need to close in fast before she could strike him back, and then he'd have to strike hard, bite hard... at least, that was what Selvetarm thought.

"Now it's _my_ fault, then. _My_ fault, these thousands of years. Surely it can't be dear Mother's, in spite of the overwhelming evidence, after all she has a _cunt_!"

For the last word he reached past the Drow and the Elven and used another word, probably in Common. If Tarlyn had heard it before, he hadn't remembered what it meant. It was very ugly, if the way Theris's eyebrow raised and Miss Shessair blanched was any signal. And after Tarlyn had turned that over in his head, he thought, _Mother_? It was as incongruous between them as _Father_. But given all else he had heard since, maybe it wasn't. The incongruities all turned congruent if you looked at them a certain way. But that way...

He remembered the way Ilithaine or something in Ilithaine said _Zandilar_. _Sharess,_ they were saying now. _Shevarash_.

And yesterday Veldrin had said _he wanted to think you weren't worth saving_ , and looked shocked at himself, like he'd let something out he hadn't meant to. And surely, he could see now, that thing was the _you_.

In the now, Veldrin kept going. "And if you hadn't been convinced I was the ultimate evil, if you'd paid more attention to what _Mother_ was doing, we wouldn't be here! We wouldn'tve been _there_!"

"Don't be ridiculous! You _know_ I wasn't saying that! I can't imagine why you insist _you're_ being persecuted whenever you're held responsible for your actions!"

"And you're one to talk about responsibility, too! All those you hustled back into the sun where trees and flowers grow, _they_ were held responsible. _They_ made up for what they'd done! All those spiders scuttling into the light because they knew the night would make them pay!

"And that's another reason I don't understand why you're so enamored of Shevarash. In case you haven't noticed, he's got a cock. But he's a faerie with a cock, perhaps that makes all the difference. You're certainly enamored enough of _Father_. Now you fawn on _him_ like you fawned on _them_. Oh no, you say, _he_ mustn't be held responsible either! He can still be redeemed! We mustn't give up yet! You weren't saying that about _Selvetarm_!"

Another congruity went _click_. Tarlyn thought as he braced himself with an arm on the wall, next to the light switch: _you, me, Selvetarm_...

 "I can't believe I'm hearing this. As if _you_ ever cared about Selvetarm besides as a potential tool you might lure with blood ties!"

"I never pretended to care! That was you, all _you_!"

Not true, Tarlyn thought now, knew now, though it hadn't lasted long. He looked back, and back again, and saw a night with no moon. They both walked the surface, then. They were in a forest, so old and deep that no starlight made it through the branches. Back then, on the surface, Selvetarm was called Forestborn because he was the son of the last goddess of the Yuirwood (it was before titles like Prince of the Aranea, Lord of the Venomire, Champion of Lolth. It was when many more of the Selvetargtlin knew what a forest was, had seen them, even lived in them). He saw Vhaeraun's eyes behind his mask, green with scrutiny while he smiled and inveigled, red once thwarted. Behind his mask was Veldrin's face.

 _I know what you did to Mother. You think I'll forget it just because I've gone away from her? That I'd stop caring at all?_ The spiders swirled thick around his feet, Selvetarm's feet. _Leave me be or I'll... I'll call on someone who can make you._

 _You have no idea what you're trying to threaten_ , said Vhaeraun, looking down at the spiders. Red and blue. _If you shout for Mother to chase me away, little one, do you have any idea what she'd do to_ you _?_

That, that much was true. He'd had no idea at all.

"Pretended? _Pretended_?"

"I heard it all. I might have been trapped then, but I could still see and I could still hear while you did your best to digest me. I heard you laugh at the sava board, I felt you smile when the Xarann bitch swung the Crescent Blade."

Her voice shook. "That's a lie!"

"You certainly weren't weeping. I saw you roll the dice. I heard you make your choice. Priestess takes Warrior! Priestess takes Warrior! Priestess takes Warrior!"

At least when the dream was in the Demonweb Pits, it was over quickly. _Take it! Take it!_ The silver flash of what he knew now was the Crescent Blade ("Hey," Kiira had said as they browsed the Weave, "they've got a picture, the one in Eryndlyn they say's the one, wanna see?" And he'd turned away). A glimpse of what might have been someone's face – Halisstra Melarn's or Cavatina Xarann's. A split second of what passed by his eyes before they went out. Then nothing.

In the dream where he stood at the sava board, though, stood with Lolth ensconced above him and Eilistraee across from him, his legs had gone first, and he'd had a lot of legs. He'd had time to realize what was happening. Time to realize he couldn't stop it. Time to be horrified. Time to beg. To cry out _No! You can't!_ when she could, and did. Lolth was contemptuous, Eilistraee impassive.

"And I heard you scold _Mother_ for her lack of familial feeling."

If Eilistraee hadn't cried then, she might start now. "And you conveniently forget what happened after. You should've been there for _that_ , too."

"What, when you sobbed for Moonbow and Celanil, sobbed some more for Father, so sweetly heartrending, so beautifully tragic? So they could comfort you: no, no, it was his own fault, it was the Spider Bitch's fault, it was everyone's fault but theirs and yours, everyone's fault but the one who made the sword and the one who wielded it? When you so mournfully informed Sharess, who took a moment to shed a single picturesque tear for him before she started another celebration for my death?"

"You've a fine nerve calling me hypocritical. You gave Sharess plenty of reason to want you dead. And _you_ never wept, what was left of you. Not for a moment. You were thinking _you_ should have had him."

"If I'd had him, if he was one of mine, I wouldn't have let him die. He never would have died like that. I'd never have called him a necessary sacrifice."

"You can say that now. There's no way to prove it, and you'll never have to make good on your word."

"I'm proving it right now. _He_ proves it right now. Didn't he tell you? He trusts me to teach him. He trusts me to take him to Myth Drannor."

Before this both of them would've known Tarlyn couldn't understand them. Would they know that now he could? Did they know he watched behind the door?

Maybe one of them meant it. Maybe they _both_ meant it.

He could feel Selvetarm's outraged incredulity at the very idea. Maybe _Veldrin_ meant it, he thought at him, and maybe Miss Veladorn did, even if the other two who shared their voices didn't. It was Veldrin who'd talked about Drannor, about teaching him.

"Only because you reached him first."

"It happened in exactly the same order as last time. First Sharess, then me, then you. The last time around he told me where to shove it and he was infatuated with you. It's not the timing that's changed, it's _him_. He knows the truth now, he's learned from experience. He remembers as well as I do how merciful you were at the last. He won't let himself be taken in by another scheming bitch even if she has pretty words for him as long as she thinks he might have a use."

Tarlyn could see now that she'd started crying. "And you? You've learned nothing. You've learned nothing at all."

"Guys?"

Kiira came into the room, came into view. His hands were empty; he hadn't taken his moonblade. "Guys, what'd I miss?" Switching from Elven to Common, "Hey, Arie, fill me in – what're you gonna put up on the Weave?"

"I have no idea whatsoever," said Miss Shessair. "My translation spell needs work. Except I guess you don't have your own really punchy word for ladybits? Because from the sound of it he borrowed ours –"

While she was saying this they both looked at Kiira and for a second they looked like maybe they were going to answer him, say something he could understand, maybe even something the rest of them could understand. Then Miss Veladorn said, "I... don't know what he sees in you."

"He sees _me_. He sees me as I am and he likes it. He even wants to be friends with it. What's the matter, _sister_? Can't share?"

"Hey guys?" Kiira said again, back to Elven. "What's going on? What's this about _abbilen_? Because whatever you're saying I don't think it's about how you're the best friendsever."

They already seemed to have forgotten him besides as another point of argument. "Have you? Have you _really_? Did you show him your arrogance, did you show him your vanity, did you show him your hypocrisy, all your petty grudges? Did you show him how you would cling to him, and be enraged when he moved on in his usual way?"

"I know one thing he saw, and I didn't even show him! He saw my death. He saw me hacked to pieces at Princess Moonflower's feet. And when he woke he called me to ask if I was all right."

"Did he really? Did he see what came _before_ your death? Did he see the gate, did he see the souls trapped to fuel it, did he see your priests desecrating corpses, did he see you creeping through the woods with your blades in hand?"

"Do you really want to go there? Do you really? Do you want him to see you berserk, your own blades flying? Do you want him to see you make Selvetarm's worst rampage look like Eldath's greatest serenity? Do you want him to hear me scream? Do you want him to hear my last words? Do you _really_?"

"If he saw it, if he knew the whole truth, he'd... he'd understand you brought it on yourself." She didn't sound at all sure of it.

"We'll see about that." He turned, abruptly, switching to Elven. "Erevan! Hey, Erevan, do you want to hear my last words?"

Kiira stared back. "Wait, waitasecond, Veldrin, what's with you? What's with both of you? Why're you –"

" _Sister_!" he screamed, in Elven, in Veldrin's voice. " _Don't_!"

Then nobody said anything, did anything, for what seemed a very long time. Then two things happened at once: Veldrin disappeared and Miss Veladorn threw her hands to her face, which wasn't nearly enough to muffle her cry. It was even worse than Ilithaine's scream. It was one of the worst sounds Tarlyn had ever heard with his own ears.

Ilithaine had fallen to his knees. Miss Shessair pressed something on her phone and put it down. Kiira looked around the room, essaying a few vague waves as if in hopes of laying hands on an invisible Veldrin by chance. All their eyes were very large. He couldn't see if the same went for Theris's eyes because he'd put a hand to his face too, and was shaking his head.

"Tarlyn?" Kiira's eyes caught on him. He was across the room, opening the door the rest of the way. "Tarlyn?"

"Tarlyn?" Miss Veladorn echoed a ways behind him, almost a whisper.

"Do you have any more idea what the fuck just happened?"

"I... I might. I don't know Drow but... but Selvetarm does."

"Shit shit _shi-it_ –" This time he didn't announce it before throwing his arms around Tarlyn, who couldn't understand why. "What the fuck were they _saying_?"

"First it was something about Shevarash," Theris was saying outside. "Then something about Selvetarm and Sharess. Maybe something about Eldath at the end. I picked up that much."

"And Sehanine Moonbow," said Ilithaine, "and Hanali Celanil, and Erevan Ilesere, and his... his last words, he was..."

"The recording's probably going to be some help, but why did you start it?"

Miss Shessair said, trying to sound flip and failing hard, "In case we had to double-check who shot first."

Tarlyn looked over Kiira's shoulder, looked at them. It occurred to him as he did this that he, too, probably looked shellshocked, and probably more so since he'd understood it, more of it. "It was all four of them, at once. Mayae and Veldrin and Eilistraee and Vhaeraun, in only two voices. They were arguing about Ilithaine at first, and Shevarash. I think... I think he means to let the Nameless kill him, try and take Shevarash with him."

"Shit," said Kiira again. He seemed to be using it as a punctuation mark, or a filler noise of acknowledgment.

"Then they were arguing about each other. Then... then they started about Selvetarm. About me. About which of them really cared about him, about me. Which of them was just using us, which of them just wanted to. Then you came in and they argued about _you_ , and Erevan. Whose friend you were, or should be. And then... then about how Vhaeraun died."

"Shit." He glanced back. "Wanna say it again out there, for everyone else?"

"Guess so. Maybe... maybe not right now."

"I get it. I get it. Wanna lock up in here for a bit then? I'd lock up with you, but there's Mayae out there, and there's wherever Veldrin went, have to figure that one out, damn, wish he'd known how to teleport two days ago..."

"I get it. I'll stay in for now. No locks." Maybe until someone else remembered he was there. He put down the sword and went to sit down against the foot of the bed he'd slept in, with his knees to his chest.

Miss Veladorn remembered not long after, or Kiira told her. She pushed the door open. "Tarlyn? Can I come in?"

He nodded. She came in, crouched down beside him. Her long hair was in disarray. He could see where her tears had dried. Eventually she said again, "Tarlyn?"

"Yeah?"

"Was it true? Was any of it true?"

Something had changed during all this. He knew this because for a moment he thought of lying to make her feel better. Because she was crying, and she _had_ cried – Vhaeraun himself had said so. He said she was pretending about that, too, but that was what he'd want to think. And Tarlyn knew he could say _that_ , say that everything Vhaeraun shouted at her in Veldrin's voice was true. It would be a different kind of lie because he, Tarlyn, was sure some of it wasn't, and some of the true things, too, were sharpened to pierce to the heart.

"I don't know all of what went on. There's some things I do know. What he saw. What he thought." He made himself look at her and look at her silver eyes. "I know that when he died... when he was dying... he thought she never really loved him at all. She cried. I know that now. But he didn't see it."

This time he wasn't quite so surprised when she, too, grabbed him and drew him to her. Still surprised, though, and surprised when she started crying again on his shoulder. He could feel Selvetarm was shocked even worse before rallying – _this, too, is a trick_. So he believed Vhaeraun on that much. When Tarlyn thought this at him, put it in that way, he didn't take it well.

Eventually he said something else, something that was also the truth, though it was a sharp truth without trying. She might not know this truth; he hadn't told her before he did it and then he'd never had another chance. "He went to kill Zanassu because he really did love her." Because Tarlyn might not know as much about love as most people (on TV, in picture books, _I love you mommy/daddy/grandma/grandpa_ ), but nothing else could hurt quite like that when it went wrong. "He wanted to –" _I'm so proud of you_ , calling him a name that wasn't his _._ "– he wanted to make her proud."

Saying this didn't release anything, didn't cure anything, didn't stop Selvetarm from raging. But he needed to say it, and it was said. He leaned forward in her arms, and put his face to her shoulder in return.

They stayed much that way, Tarlyn drifting into half-sleep and amazed that he was doing it, until Larissa arrived and everything had to be explained over again.


	24. Veldrin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a tough one. Here, have some more misogyny. Also references to rape and forced prostitution, and onscreen sexualized assault. Canonical suicide. Repeats a bunch of dialogue from Sacrifice of the Widow and Storm of the Dead, plus a line from Resurrection.

_  
__Those who follow the Lady of Loss are a peculiar lot, though they're reliable allies in a bout of moonlight-quenching. Mustn't hope, mustn't plan, mustn't dream of something better and certainly mustn't do anything to_ make _it better... Ah well. More for us._

\- Excerpt from the journals of Kerewyk of Vhaeraun, Raven's Wing, 1364 DR

 

**VELDRIN**

_(Dark half-mask)_

_6 Mirtul_

He thumped onto something soft. When he came back to himself he saw it was the Reverie couch. His couch. His room, he could tell in a glance. The one he'd picked when they were looking at the house, planning to move back from Scornubel ("This one's mine," he'd said. "All right," said Dad). His desktop, his desktop computer. His bookcases, packed with his books. His posters: Tel Vandree, Thirdborn Son, Siora of Eryndlyn (or at least the guy who played him in the biopic, a poster of him sitting at a table in front of an blank book looking contemplative), Jezz the Lame (three of them, two prints of different iconic paintings, one as played by Imor Khalazza), some of his favorite slogans. One that proclaimed _University of Myth Drannor Sava Club: Still Undefeated_ (for various reasons they weren't entered in the competitions where all the sava clubs from Underdark schools were signed up to win and lose). He wasn't actually a member on the mailing list and all that, he got the poster when they were fundraising because he thought it was funny, but when he tried playing with Tler and Valas J and Valas R he wasn't half bad if he said so himself. He preferred some of the newer sets with fewer cultural assumptions. Dice without spiders for ones (some had crescent moons, some had stars, some had just one unremarkable pip). Priest pieces packed next to the Priestess pieces, Father pieces with the Mother pieces. Some sets went so far as to de-offensitize Slave pieces – rename them something innocuous like Footsoldiers (though those could be easily confused with Warriors), or steal something off the lanceboard and call them Pawns.

_Priestess takes Warrior._

No, before that.

_Wizard takes Slave._

Tarlyn had talked about letting in things you couldn't get back out and he was smarter than he gave himself credit for (you kill one demon-god-thing you shouldn't have and everyone calls you an idiot for the rest of your life... if Vhaeraun had actually managed to shank Lolth how hard would her demon-god-fuckedupness have whacked _him_ over the head?). Except he'd let out something he couldn't get back in. Picked one lock too many, like in those movies where treasure-hunters poked too far and let something out and (almost) doomed the world. That had been the plot of at least one of the Graverendings Kiira had dragged him to.

It had done what he'd meant it to do, what Vhaeraun meant it to do, what _they'd_ meant it to do. Even before he'd dematerialized from the room, he knew it worked. Kiira looked horrified and Veladorn looked like she was about to _really_ turn on the waterworks and it served her fucking right if she and Eilistraee couldn't handle the truthwhen it was shoved in her face.

Then why was he running?

Or teleporting, as the case might be. As the case was.

Fuck, he thought as he seated himself more comfortably, trying to get _something_ comfortable. I said all that. He said that. _We_ said that.

Or maybe just _I_. _I, the no-longer-late Vhaeraun, said that and I meant every word and I also meant to make my sister cry. The sister I never knew I had. The one I never wanted, and the one I didn't get for fifty years._

The thought didn't seem quite so potentially megalomaniacal at the moment.

One piece of highly suggestive evidence he'd taken into account long before: "Did anyone else ever have eyes like yours? Did you ever _give_ anyone else eyes like yours?" _Did I?_

He got an answer: Yes. Once, he'd _given_ them. Actually, he hadn't given them, he'd made them stick around. It hadn't been a gift. It had been a curse. The Auzkovyns thought Veldrin's eyes must have been lucky when he was a kid, but only because they didn't know about Tellik Melarn.

Tellik Melarn: he remembered. He'd heard the name before, one of the early Melarns of Eryndlyn, the Vhaeraun-worshipping branch (though technically when things relaxed and secularized some went off the plateau and went to Selvetarm and Ghaunadaur and he was _not_ going to be offended by that). The eldest son of the branch founder, Matiris, the one who'd run off with the Crescent Blade and traded it to the Weapons Master of Eryndlyn with what had surely been a shit-eating grin. The one who'd made the famed name of Melarn patrilineal for more than just a temporary measure to keep it alive until a female succession was provided for. Matiris Melarn in turn was the second son and youngest child of the wizard Q'arlynd Melarn, whose sons and daughters were all named Melarn because of that temporary measure. Q'arlynd Melarn had been known for helping to jury-rig a kind of High Magic for drow, which mages reveled in for over two hundred glorious years before the Departure knocked everything flat (and there was a lot more, Veldrin was starting to know now, that the guy _wasn't_ known for), but outside of magic theorists he was known mostly for being Halisstra Melarn's brother.

There'd been another brother. The Tellik he'd thought of first was Tellik the Younger. He was named after Tellik the Elder, he remembered that now (though what part of him remembered it?), the priest of Vhaeraun, the uncle Matiris had never met but always thought of as a martyr (and when Veldrin tried very hard he could see Matiris's face, still with its baby fat, as he listened wide-eyed to his father's stories; what he saw might even have been real because Matiris had been a child before the Departure. Vhaeraun had never entirely lost consciousness, and might have had reason to look).

(House Melarn had been a veritable hotbed of dissent. He remembered reading, too, that Matiris had been named after a female ancestor who'd gone to the surface. The first Melarn to wield the Crescent Blade)

Tellik the Elder was also, in a way, the younger. Younger than Halisstra, younger than Q'arlynd. He died the secondboy of House Melarn of Ched Nasad, though not second-born, before he turned a hundred; Tellik the Younger had only passed on two centuries ago.

 _Show me_.

He was shown, or showed himself, investigating with mental lockpicks in hand. Tellik Melarn checking a mirror moments before walking out into public and what would've been his certain death, though this delayed it only few hours. Tellik was born with red eyes like the rest of his family but now they were bright green, and only became more so as he gaped at himself in horror. He'd already dismissed one spell, absently, but now he fumbled through more to dispel it, to take it off, to make it _go away_ , and of course not a one of them worked. He wasn't that powerful, and the one who'd _given_ him those spells wasn't going to let him off. Not after what he'd done.

_What did he do?_

That one was easy. Hours before he'd cast the illusion, keyed to change automatically as his thoughts changed. He'd looked into the mirror and grinned at himself with gold eyes. All that was left was to don the black cloak, which he'd also imbued with some appropriate visual effects. He could get away with not doing the hair too, he was thinking, because Vhaeraun could be discreet, especially since he was conveniently possessing the body of a favored if young priest...

He'd pulled the hood of his _piwafwi_ far over his head. Gone invisibly as long as he could, running along the strands of the city's webs. Back to the last place he wanted to go, the only place he had to go. Gone to House Melarn. Gone to his older brother, the mage in training. He'd been to a gathering, he knew the signs. He would understand. His brother couldn't undo it either, and said so. Just make me invisible, Tellik pleaded, make me invisible for longer, long enough to get out of here, long enough to maybe try for the Night Above, where even if there's surfacers out to get you they don't give a shit what color your eyes are and if the color's changing –

I can do that, said his brother. Now close your eyes, relax, you have to let it in for it to work...

And he opened his eyes (which would've been green, still) on his back, on an altar, looking up at his mother's face.

And the last sound he made, that last gasping gurgle, who knew if he was trying to call to his brother or his god.

Either way, Vhaeraun heard it. Because he had screamed for him earlier, quite clearly, when he thought begging Vhaeraun or confessing to Drisinil Melarn might end it.

That was something Q'arlynd Melarn hadn't told his children about martyred Uncle Tellik.

(And what had he thought when he first heard his grandson's name? He'd visited his youngest a few times after the Half-Moon Schism. Had he ever said, well actually Matiris, I handed your little boy's namesake over to death by torture to save my own hide, I didn't even dare to make it quick)

(Matiris's second son was named Szorak. There was something funny about that too, he could feel it, and he could think about what it was later)

"He was a kid!" Veldrin told the ceiling. "He didn't have ten years on me! He was just a stupid kid! He was one of yours! How _could_ you!"

 _You're younger than he was, and_ you'd _know better. Nothing to spare for those who don't, nothing for those who're that idiotic, who'd think they could attempt that sort of brazen deception with no consequences. He wasn't one of mine. His own actions proved it._

"You left him to die, to die like that, for being an attention-seeking dumbass?"

_There's no point in coddling one disloyal fool at the cost of ten with sense and loyalty._

"Is that why you left Selvetarm where he was? He was stupid and he told you to get lost?" Left him to a death that took excruciating centuries. A mortal drow's lifetime (and there had been mortal drow, too, who'd lived longer than him). "Were you really that petty? Next you'll tell me you _did_ kill Zandilar for no good fucking reason."

 _If you believe so, then that's why_ we _did it._ We _left Selvetarm to his well-deserved fate and_ we _put an end to the whore who spawned him. You can't presume to be my mortal incarnation only to preen about what accomplishments don't offend your delicate and untried sensibilities._

Whores, thought Veldrin, dizzy, of all the things to grab on to. Maybe not 101 stuff but at most it was 201 stuff. It was a word meant to shame what you did, or had to do, to do with sex. A lot of males way back when were literal whores – for money, for influence, for life. They worked with what they had and often they didn't have a choice, not a _real_ choice. And they were spat on and mocked for it by those who'd never had to make such a nonexistent choice.

 _Female privilege, institutionalized oppression_ – but Zandilar wasn't a drow female. Zandilar wasn't the Spider Bitch or the Nameless or even Eilistraee. No maiden, no crone, and back then not yet a mother. Zandilar was a faerie goddess and that was one thing Veldrin thought they did right, that they _weren't_ flagrantly institutionalized sexists even if certain of their catspaws were. Completely different paradigm. She'd come with a proposal (so he found as he flung open doors, rifled through drawers), straightforward for all its graceful phrasings and praises: _Your mother's people are spilling my people's blood. My people are in terrible danger. I know I'm beautiful. I know you hate her already. So in a way you gain all. Lie with me, and then help me._ Her hand with its blue skin, half covered by her long gauzy sleeve, resting feather-light on his arm. _With secrets, with swords, anything._

And then Vhaeraun had fucked her, and then he gave her fuck-all but a donation of godly spermatozoa and what might as well have been her death.

The sting down his face, his blood trickling down. His blood dripping from Bast's claws. Bast's cat's head with green cat's eyes glaring daggers. Bast and Zandilar, vanishing.

It wasn't as exact as the others, not with the other goddesses thrown in the mix, the complexion was completely different, the eyes were cat-green, the ears were blunted with human blood, but he saw Larissa Fariha's face as she stared at him in the lobby of the Silverstar. As she'd stared at him upstairs when he'd first asked after Tarlyn.

Tarlyn's face, Selvetarm's face, the age he was now or even a little bit younger. In the forest, on a new moon night, staring at him. _I know what you did to Mother._

"Fine." He flopped back. His feet went over the side of the couch. "Fine. We. So that makes _me_ an ass too. At least I'm not a genocidal maniac. _Am_ I? Got any more surprises? Ditch the dwarves, we can live with the halflings, I don't remember us saying anything specific about orcs, were we maybe planning to open a gate into wherever the orc gods hung out and stick a sword in Gruumsh's other eye?"

_That ass. Over a damn table._

_Over a damn illusion. Over a damn calling-out._

So he'd been more of an ass, more of an asshole, than he'd ever imagined.

_It was called Nishrek, for future reference. Not that I actually care._

Dying still hurt when you were an asshole. 

Fuck, _fuck_! There went his breathing again. Somehow he'd almost managed to _forget_ it, with all his mental meanderings and finding out ways other people died, but here it went again – it hadn't ever gone away, it was just dozing, one eye open, waiting to pounce –

***

_Gods. Not Shar. Not Shar. Please. Not Shar._

***

_Sister! Don't!_

***

 _"Why should you live! Out of all people why should_ you _live!"_

_He couldn't see her as she said this. His left arm he'd managed to fling over his face, a useless shield. His right arm lay useless at his side, in the moonlit grass. Useless as his mangled legs. The moonlight that made it past his arm half-blinded him. Beneath his left arm, his disheveled hair in his eyes. It was white._

_So that's what my fear looks like, he thought, part of him already far away and flying further._

_Another part of him fell far away in another direction. With god's eyes, he could see beyond this plane. He could see the cave connected to nothing. The statue on the ground, named Urz, the petrified spare they hadn't needed. Malvag, and Valdar, and Q'arlynd who had arrived calling himself Szorak (Szorak had died trying to fuck his target's corpse). Not so long ago he'd reached out and cut the geas her favored servant had bound to Q'arlynd, watched it unravel and fade, and laughed at it._

_Gods moved over thousands of years but time distorted around them, the immensity of their consciousness and their form could instead spin in motion fast and still faster, so on the Material Plane, in the cave beneath Faerun, less than a minute had passed._

_He saw Malvag's face and knew he was smiling._

_If he smiled then he couldn't see this, he couldn't hear this. He hadn't heard the clash of swords, he hadn't heard the metal meeting flesh and bone, he hadn't heard the gasps as he tried to stumble and then crawl back to the gate, he hadn't heard the screams._

_So there was one thing: at the last no one but her had heard him beg for mercy._

_The knowledge that he had done it, and she had heard it, was bitter enough in his last moments. The knowledge, too, that he'd done it for nothing except her gratification and his final shame before he went._

_He couldn't see. He couldn't see. Everything blurry, why was everything so..._

_He could hear the sword come down._

***

_She began to weep. He managed to think: Distracted – maybe – but no, he couldn't move. Tried. Couldn't._

_So far away._

_He needed to move, to get back, to take his chance –_

_He had no more chances. Every moment he was swept further away from his last chance, when he stood in Ellaniath in front of the open gate._

_Swept away, swept up. Nothing connecting properly._

_His face was wet. Her tears._

_Not all of them were hers._

_The moon in his eyes and he couldn't close them._

_Far away._

***

_Once he left his body behind he had energy, energy enough to struggle and to see how useless struggle was._

***

_The dice rolling._

_"Double ones!"_

_"Apologize!"_

_"... forgive me."_

_"A sacrifice. I claim it now. Priestess takes Warrior."_

_"No!"_

_His head. His bloodless face. His rage-red eyes, his fear-white hair._

_Not his. Selvetarm's._

_"A trophy for your victory?"_

_"How far you have fallen, Weaver. He was your grandchild."_

_And he knew that in some places they would weep. They would say that no one should have to bury their children._

_Being dead, he didn't have to._

_Let her do it. If she cared to._

_She didn't take his head. Not even to burn it._

_Far away. So far away._

***

" _Vhaeraun? Are you there?"_

_I'm not._

***

_Malvag put the dagger to his arm and looked down at it dull-eyed. He knew how to draw it down to spill his blood most efficiently, so that he would die of it while he died of the poison on the blade, and so he did. Urz screamed: Dead, dead, dead. The other two had already gone._

***

_Eilistraee's game-changing Wizard, flying away, realizing the truth of her pretty words and shining trinkets as Vhaeraun had known he would._

_If only he had the strength to laugh._

***

_"Just look what your brother's rash actions brought him to. No redemption for him. Not now."_

_And was that him, there? Was that his corpse in withered pieces?_

_"Sacrifices are sometimes necessary. Vhaeraun gave me no choice."_

_Mother's insidious whispers. Selvetarm's fumbling efforts. His own masked secrets. Father's regretful-sounding sanctimony. Sister's sanctimony not even bothering, now, with a pretense of regret. A family of liars._

***

_Erevan Ilesere had grown himself to a height with her, to look her in the face with his green eyes. "I hate that it had to end like this way," he said. "With nobody happy at all. That you couldn't... that he's not coming back, except like this. But... but I suppose you had to do it. You being as you are, I can't fathom you... I can't fathom this happening otherwise."_

_"Did I?" she said. Surely a ploy, this show of uncertainty, a variation from the same root as her weeping, to make Erevan feel her confidant, her own Jester, to make him hurry to reassure her that of course she did the only thing that could ever have been done. He puzzled briefly at the wash around his immobilized consciousness of something he couldn't quite name. If it were anyone else he might have thought it was grief. He knew_ about _grief, he'd known it alongside his rage. "Did I have to do it?"_

***

_She tried to tell him she regretted it, later. She said, aloud in her moonlit forest, that she was sorry it had come to this. She said she would take care of his followers, that they all would have a place to go. He thought very hard of Selvetarm, of what they could both see was happening in Eryndlyn, where he and now they had an exclusive view of what remained of the closest thing Selvetarm had to a triumph. Already the people in the market were calling it the Night of Silver Blades. Oh yes, his followers were being taken care of now. She had nothing to say to that._

_But his were stronger than Selvetarm's, surely. They'd taken their chances and broken away. Their stride was sure – not like those few of Selvetarm's who tried for something more, who reached out stumbling and light-blinded and grasped nothing. They wouldn't go crawling back._

_No fingers to try to manipulate the hinges and the locks, or to scrape raw and bleeding against the walls in desperate hope that he might wear through one night. There were no doors to be locked or hinged and the walls were slippery and drawing close and the music shivered through to his core with each Evensong, trying to shake him into harmony._

_He devoted himself to survival. He told himself to think of it as those first terrible days after the Descent, scraping together what he could, hearing the screams of a thousand thousand, marking every revenge that would one day be taken, that he must believe would be taken in order to stay sane. He had even less now but it was enough to do something with, however small._

_There were people like Valdar, who spun a tale he wished had happened. People who might not tell such tales, or believe them, but were still determined to keep their faith alive and in doing so keep some piece of their true god alive. They might look like they submitted, might mouth the words as some once had in Menzoberranzan or Guallidurth or all those other cities, but they and he knew the truth of it._

_One thing he could do, one thing he could try to do: he could never bow again. He could never beg again._

***

Veldrin's face was wet. He was inside, in his room, and the ceiling wasn't leaking. For a while he couldn't get in a full breath; he'd emptied his lungs, lying sprawled on the floor.

"Veldrin? Veldrin, is that you?"

Father, he thought. _My_ father.

He got to his feet, groped from memory, propelled himself between pieces of furniture all the way to the closed door. He pushed down the handle, the lock clicked back. "Father." He only realized as he heard it that he'd said it in faerie Elven.

For some years now he'd been taller than his father (according to the studies in the journals: an indication perhaps of faerie ancestry, now that the old quasi-absolute of "breeding true" was breaking down still further, and he knew what that ancestry was now, what set of gametes accounted for it. They were drawn from the male side of that great golden quintessential faerie with the height of a born king). The way he crumpled back down in the doorway, that stopped mattering. 

"Veldrin? What happened? When did you...? Your hair..."

" _Father_." And there could be no night too dark for him but still with his eyes open he couldn't make out a thing.

"Oh gods," said his father, a hand on Veldrin's shoulder. "You... are you hurt? Should I call...?"

He had the presence of mind to shake his head. No. No, all the hurt now was in his head, and at a hospital they'd take one look and call him crazy. Maybe he was crazy, but if he was he knew they wouldn't know what kind of crazy.

"All... all right. If you're sure. You think... can you stand? We can go downstairs? Get you something?"

Sure. Sure. He pushed himself up and promptly fell again, forward; tall as he was he was lucky he hadn't knocked them both to the floor.

"It's okay. It's okay."

***

They reached the kitchen without Veldrin falling down the stairs. His father got him settled at the dining table, got him wet tissues folded up in packets that smelled like lemons, went and mixed up instant hot chocolate and very carefully didn't ask him questions while he wiped off his face and emptied his mug. The phone rang. Neither  of them paid attention. Eventually it stopped.

"You won't believe it," Veldrin said as his father opened a bag of marshmallows. "I'll sound like a megalomaniac."

"But I'll know you aren't one."

"All right. Here goes. I think I'm Vhaeraun incarnate, and I also think the Vhaeraun I'm incarnating did a lot of shitty things I didn't know about, or didn't want to know about, but that doesn't mean having nightmares about getting hacked apart by Eilistraee doesn't freak me out. How's that?"

His father took a moment to drop in more marshmallows before saying, carefully, "Actually, as far as thinking you're a god goes, I would say that's pretty modest."

Veldrin laughed. There was nothing else to do. "Not that modest. Back in Waterdeep I met a guy, he isn't thirty yet, he thinks he's _Selvetarm_ incarnate, now _that's_ modest."

(In the Drannor library one Uktar, Soraquar Hastings said, "So basically he was her bitch." It had confused him at first. For other races the word was two-sided, double-edged. When they called a male a bitch they meant he was weak and easily dominated)

"I can see why."

_Here lies Selvetarm. Born a god. Lived miserably. Died. Best accomplishments exclusively posthumous, carried out by people who didn't give up._

(Less than three years before the almost-end, standing in a fortress of terrified corpses in front of a fiend who was doing his best not to cower, he could remember the exact words: _What I want, you speck of a creature, is Selvetarm's obsequious brain torn from his foul head so that I can use his empty skull as a piss pot –_ )

"This is, well, it's difficult to process. But the more I think about it, logically – really logically, that is, not just what I'm used to thinking is logical – the more plausible it seems. With everything that's happened recently, and with what's happened before. You saw how that man died. That Auzkovyn. Were you right, do you know?"

"Yeah. I was right. And I don't think I told you about this, but I can bladebend, kind of."

"Can you?" He wasn't skeptical, just surprised. All his life his father had always believed him. Veldrin never gave him a reason not to.

"Kiira was holding one of the kitchen knives and I sent it out the window."

"There's that to take into account, then. Then the superficial details. Your eyes, again, and now your hair. Your eyes might be called natural if highly infrequent, but certainly not your hair as it is now. Back then, when..."

"When I popped up out of nowhere."

"Right. Back then. When they published the notices, looking for whoever left you, they said your eyes were green. They were, most of the time." Right. Curiosity. That made sense. Maybe Vhaeraun didn't know what in the hells was going on back then, either. "But I knew some people at the hospital, and I heard things. When I actually held you, and got you to laugh, they turned blue. The shift was distinct. It couldn't be explained by angles of light. I'd been thinking of adopting for a while, ever since I had the resources. That was when I was absolutely sure I wanted to adopt _you_."

His father didn't believe in destiny or in fate. Not disbelieved, exactly – just didn't think it did much, these days. When he was fourteen Veldrin had jittered at their return to High Forest, knowing it was where he was found and maybe born, knowing something waited for him there where he _should_ be. His father had been calmer and talked about the reasonable reasons: more children your age there, more that grow at your pace, more chances to make friends. The friends he hadn't made in Scornubel. The parent-teacher conferences where he sat outside the door and overheard words like _manipulative_ and _self-centered_ and _empathy_ (not having it).

Before, when his father had reminisced, he'd said things like _You were always bright. You knew what you wanted. Usually reasonable things, so you usually got them._

"I wasn't that religious, but I suppose all those legends still struck a chord. Maybe if I was, more would have come of it."

"That would've made things even weirder right now."

"True. When I think about it in this light, maybe that was something to do with why it took so long for your hair to come in."

"It came in white, though."

"It did, eventually. Another thing I remember now." He stopped.

"Go on."

"You were... seven, then. Your eyes hadn't settled yet. You were at work with me that night. The babysitter couldn't be had, or it was a Take-Your-Child day. That doesn't matter. One of my coworkers asked if I was going to get you a little brother or sister. I hadn't considered it, and I asked what _you_ thought. You said 'No!' Shouted it. I remember how surprised I was that you shouted."

When he thought back, not _so_ far back, Veldrin thought he remembered that. Remembered shouting. And he _hadn't_ done that often. He hardly ever threw tantrums even when he was that small. When he was angry he glared and sometimes slammed doors and sometimes crafted elaborate revenge fantasies, or repentance fantasies, in which they were sorry or he _made_ them be sorry.

"Well, I was certainly going to listen to _that_ , but it was still... a surprise. How vehement you were. I asked you about it later, in private. I remembered what you said then because the shock was even worse."

"What did I say?"

"You were still hurt. I could see that. Your eyes always turned red when you were, and that was only the most obvious way to tell. You didn't shout again. I remember... I remember the look on your face seemed... _older,_ by ten or twenty years at least.  You said, 'I'm not enough?'"

***

_He'd been handsome then, that was simple fact that everyone could acknowledge, but she was as beautiful as their mother, as beautiful as Hanali, she was Hanali's apprentice and beauty was her very domain. He was graceful and quick on his feet but she was just as graceful and she could sing while she did it in that beautiful, beautiful voice to make Father's heart melt, because song was her domain too. He'd practiced hard with his blades then out of something besides the practicalities of survival. He dreamed sometimes of holding Sahandrian, of being given it (you are my son, he might have dreamed, you are my heir, wield it well). Even back then he only bested her in swordfights by every cunning stratagem he could devise, coupled with fortunate chance: she was Father's apprentice too, when it came to swords. He was a good shot. Her arrows only ever missed once, when it all came apart._

_One thing he had for himself: long fingers, clever fingers. These indisputably were more deft than hers, more precise. He could play the harp or flute very well if he chose, but he didn't often choose to once he realized that as perfectly assembled as his music was it never drew the same reaction from Father. He used to watch Mother weaving over her shoulder. Sometimes when he was small she would give him bits and pieces to play with and usually he could make something of it. She would pat his head and say things like my clever little darling, but he always knew that eventually she would ask: Where's your sister? She didn't like that his sister wasn't quite as interested in her arts as she was in Father's, and that bothered her more than it cheered her that he was there in her place._

_It made sense in retrospect. Just a male._

***

_He gets his fucking happy family and his fun and his pretty peaceful Cormanthor..._

He knew his father loved him. He knew because if his father didn't love him he would've had no obligation to take him home, to call himself his father. There was no blood tie, no sense of duty that would've had Relonor Auzkovyn stay if he didn't want to. And now, Veldrin could see, he'd been even more sure of this because he had no rivals. So for fifty years he'd gotten what he wanted (and for most of those years there'd been Kiira, too, who'd been friend to anyone he didn't drive off in exasperation but most of all _his_ friend). Even the pretty peaceful Cormanthor.

Veladorn maybe, too – she'd mentioned when they were still playing nice for Kiira's sake that she'd been adopted by her mother, no father, just an unobtrusive uncle. Eilistraee would already know her father adored her. Now she could also have a mother who wasn't a conniving bitch (or yoch, you could say nowadays, it was the comparatively new slang, derived from "yochlol," and after all she _was_ the progenitor of the yoches). She'd want a mother, while Vhaeraun knew he could do very well without one. That didn't explain Theris Frost though, who took his stepfather's name and conspicuously said nothing about his father. That didn't explain why Tarlyn bounced around in Rhymanthiin social services without anyone ever picking him up. Unless maybe when the cosmic bureaucracy was sorting things out, assigning the family units, Selvetarm had told them _Fuck it, I'm going without._

"I guess... I guess that hurt you, too." Because his father never gave him a reason to think that, no reason that made any real sense.

"... well, yes, I'm afraid it did. It made me wonder what I'd done wrong for you to have that idea in your head, and so _young_..."

And when he tried hard Veldrin thought he could remember his father saying more reasonable things as he hugged him and ran a soothing hand through his hair. Saying things like: you know your classmate –? (He'd forgotten the name of the classmate, but he must have gotten along with them) They have an older sister and a younger brother and their parents don't care about any of them any less. Love isn't finite, said his father, and got distracted for a little bit explaining what finite meant. At the end though, he'd said: if you don't want one, I'm every bit as happy with just you.

"Dad?" He held on to the word. It was a newer kind of slang, a casual one, popularized by humans. In the first days of Arvandor, nobody said _dad_.

"Yes?"

"I love you."

And Dad might be confused but he was _Dad_ , and he put out his arms again, and Veldrin put out his, and they fit together fine.

***

The phone rang again. Dad took it while Veldrin had more chocolate. "Hello? Oh... Yes. You're right." He put a hand on the receiver. "It's Kiira Craulnober." Veldrin nodded. He put the receiver back up. "Yes, yes." He looked at Veldrin. "Does he want to...?" Veldrin nodded. "Yes. He told me, at least some of it. I suppose you're...? Yes. I'll give it to him now." And he did.

"Hey, Kiira."

"Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah."

"So I guessed right."

"Did you?"

"Well, after you left there was this mess and everyone was confused – _I_ was confused – did you know Tarlyn heard everything? And actually _understood_ it? Because he doesn't know Drow but Selvetarm does, see."

"... that makes sense."

"So anyway, after we got things straightened out, or at least a bit untangled, I tried calling your cell phone first thing but I heard it ringing over in the other room. So that was out. Then I thought, well, mostly when you teleport, or when they teleported back in the day, they mostly went to places they'd already been, right? And I thought, after what I'd heard and what I _did_ pick up, where'd _you_ want to go, most likely? I mean, you hadn't started crying like Mayae but everything sounded pretty fucked up all the same. And I thought, well, here. I called a bit ago, but nobody picked up," and he hadn't bothered with the answering machine, he hardly ever did, "so I called your other friends, the ones I know – Madh and the Ulos and all – and when they didn't have a clue I called, well, now. And I guess I'd better call them all again, I think I freaked them out."

"Guess you'd better."

"You think you can go back the same way?"

"I should. I've gone once. If I can't, I'll call you and take the train again. Keep, let's see, keep the corner of the bedroom clear, the one next to the bed I'm using, don't want to land in anyone."

"See you soon?"

"See you soon."

***

"Thanks, Dad."

"It's nothing. Nothing more than... well, being your dad, I suppose. If you feel you need to do this, then good luck."

"Gonna start trying now. One more thing."

"Yes?"

"When I showed up. My hair. You said something about it."

"Yes. Your hair, and your eyes. They were a color I'd never seen before."

White, he thought at first, but Dad would be _used_ to seeing him with white hair. White – for fear, he guessed, when he wasn't angry enough alongside it to show red. So something else. "What?"

"This will sound strange, in context."

"Yeah?"

"But I could've sworn they were silver."

"Oh," he said. "Huh. That _is_ strange." But maybe not so strange. It had a logic. Silver and gold. Gold for triumphant and happy, silver for upset, for fucked up. For having things like your own assholery on the brain. For thinking maybe some part of you actually needed redeeming. "Thanks again. See you after I've straightened out some of this mess. Goodbye."

"Be safe."

***

He tried his own room, first. He thought of the posters, the furniture, all of that. He had a perfect picture. He thought _go there_ , and he went.

Then, standing there (he'd thought of sitting but he might fall on the other side when the couch wasn't there), he thought of the bedroom of his and Kiira's suite in the Garden Hotel. He thought of his cell phone on the nightstand. Of the bed Kiira had gone running under, and the bedspread – its pattern, its color. He concentrated on that corner then, the corner where he'd talked to Tarlyn, where he'd thought _Why?_ and got the first answer he hadn't expected and didn't like.

He thought _go there,_ and he went –

– and in the dark inbetween something reached out for him, something beckoned him, and he reached back and arrived –

Outside. Early morning, almost five by now, the sky gray, the sun about to bring it color. He was still at the Garden Hotel. He stood in the further shade of the green awning over the glass doors in the hotel facade. He could see the pool, remembered the pool hours. As scheduled, it was empty. No lifeguard. The doors behind him would be locked.

He turned. Someone stood beside him. Someone dressed dark as he was, but looser, so that what he could see of them was far more nebulous. They had a hood drawn up that hid most of their pale face and black hair.

Still, though, he thought he recognized her.

 _Her_. He knew that, too.

_She ruled the very night he sought to return to. A natural ally to seek out. She had charge of forgetfulness, too: to mark their alliance she'd laid an enchantment on Ellaniath. Only he and she (for courtesy's sake) and Mask (because he got into everything and got out of almost everything) would ever remember what transpired within its borders. Mortals told stories of this enchantment because, when it came to Ellaniath, they could tell stories of nothing else._

_Of course he'd never trusted her, as he hadn't trusted any of them, except to do what was good for them both._

"Grace Tanthul, I presume."

"You presume correctly, Veldrin Auzkovyn."

He was never going to win at cards against her, he could tell that much. He tried for breeziness, anyway. "So why'd you flag me down?"

"We needed to speak with discretion."

"About what?"

"You are the first I've met in this life to travel the shadow paths."

"Uh huh."

She glanced eastward. Did she look the slightest bit nervous? Her time ascendant was running out. Soon it'd be the turn of, what was his name, Lathander, Amaunator, one of those. "And we were allies, once, were we not?"

"Something like that, yeah." He didn't try very hard to sound enthusiastic. 

"You don't wish to resume a mutually beneficial relationship?"

"Don't think so. You already tipped your hand on that other relationship."

"Other relationship."

"Rilashan Ilithaine. Shevarash."

"You did not object before."

_Well, he'd known about Shevarash, of course. And of course at first he'd objected, he'd asked her what the fuck she was doing with him. And she'd said calm down, please (it was the please that had calmed him), and she said things about the long game. About directing him. About someday sending him screaming for blood only against drow that weren't his._

"I'm objecting now. Unless you're saying you _didn't_ cover up for him at that party."

"I covered up for all of us."

"You didn't stop him."

"Neither did Theris Frost."

"You didn't even try. At least he figured out genocide was wrong."

"Oh?"

"Yes, _oh_. Somehow he found a _wrong_ reason to kill Kren Auzkovyn. Not for shooting other people in the head, not for ordering people run over. Just out of hate. Just out of him swearing to – just out of him saying 'swear to Vhaeraun.' Then there was that dead girl, and that nearly dead girl, and he had no reason but what they were wearing. And Tarlyn. Can't forget Tarlyn."

"And that matters to you."

"Why _wouldn't_ it?" Though too easily he could think of why it might not've mattered to Vhaeraun, when it came to the last three: Kenafin and Soldou weren't _his_ girls, and they _were_ girls (though in the case of Soldou, her boyfriend _was_ one of his, in a way, so she could count as one of his once-maybe-twice removed). And Tarlyn, and Selvetarm, that one was a no-brainer even if he didn't want it to be. "And even _Ilithaine's_ feeling sorry about the maniac squatting in his headspace by now. Even he's ready to pay for it."

"Is he now."

"Yes he is. Oh, are _you_ going to say he shouldn't? You'll team up with Veladorn telling him not to? This I want to see."

"Surely you don't care so badly for _them_."

"What them?"

"This Veladorn, as you call her. Your sister, then?" She pulled it into the open. "Your son? And your son's mother? Only now you would grieve for them?"

"Them? You know what? At this point, I don't really give a shit about you either." He, Veldrin Auzkovyn, would pick Tarlyn or Fariha over her any time of the tenday.

"You would have, once."

"Yeah, well, once I would've ditched a guy to die screaming because he pissed me off. And maybe you're _still_ fine with that, but I'm not."

She gestured upward, toward a high window that might've been theirs. "You aren't like them, you know. Not truly. You aren't like any of them. Why do you reject the one place you're best suited for?"

"Why don't you quit projecting? Just because you're stuck brooding down there in the dark doesn't mean the rest of us have to stay down there with y–"

It was midnight dark. Her mouth was cold.

A gray throne in a gray room –


	25. Elinor Cale, the Innocent

_If you're a Sharran, where were you when we sacked Sembia?_

\- Anonymous

**ELINOR CALE, THE INNOCENT**

_(Mask)_

_6 Mirtul_

For the trip to reconnoiter the Westgate headquarters of the Benevolence Society, the pronoun would be _she_. _She_ , in this case, was one of her favorites: demure Elinor Cale of the long hair and the brace for her withered leg and the delicate Sembian accent. She walked with the quiet endurance of an Ilmatari saint, and with a minimum of noise. It was hard for her to make much in the way of noise even when noise would be an excellent cover.

The other young woman in the waiting room was as pale as Elinor, and perhaps her age, and far more insanely gorgeous than Elinor's unobtrusive prettiness. Her hair was pale too, where Elinor's was dark – a blond that was almost white. Her eyes were a light brown that was in turn almost yellow, and red-rimmed such that, out of context, Elinor might have supposed she suffered allergies that thanks to a kiss from Sune (as the expression went) left her looks unmarred. In context, as the other woman sneered at the clock, she thought that this was probably the mortal incarnation of Beshaba.

The third in the room, the only other besides the receptionist, was a young man, perhaps a little older. The visible scarring along one cheek didn't spoil his face – someone who went in for that sort of thing might even call it rugged or badass – but would make a distinguishing feature on a Wanted poster. A war god, most likely, forthright and muscle-bound as he was. Tempus was the obvious guess, but there was no need to assume just yet. He'd introduced himself, plopping in the chair just beside her instead of leaving the customary empty seat of public personal space: Zanek Reaves, "with an A." He took special care shaking Elinor's small hand with its long thin fingers. He was a native of Westgate. That would bear further investigation. He currently worked as a bar bouncer. He thought he'd just dropped in to fill out an application and happened to get a callback.

The receptionist nodded at something from his headset. "Miss Cale? The director will see you now." Miss Cale nodded back and stood with practiced care.

"Good luck!" called Zanek Reaves.

"Thank you, Zanek," she said, and then, to the receptionist, "Thank you, Mr. Cartwright."

***

"Thank you for having me, Mr. Brightwood," she said a minute or so later.

The director smiled back. "Thank you for coming, Miss Cale. Please, take a seat." She did so; she had remained standing to suggest docility and lack of initiative.

Thomas Brightwood had one of those motivational posters on the wall, and a calendar with pictures of cherubic children, and protection charms for every nicey-nice deity from Tyr to Lathander to Tymora (and one for Helm for good measure) dangling in between. She could see past him to the window in the back wall of his office, with filmy white curtains. Past those curtains there was probably a lovely view of the Society's inner courtyard. Brightwood himself might have posed for an artist's interpretation of Lathander though Elinor doubted he actually _was_ – youthful-looking (the actual Lathander, given trends, was almost certainly younger), rosy-cheeked, golden-haired, so wholesome you could hurl. Or you could laugh, which she did, deep inside.

He looked over her resume as if reading it all over again, which of course he wasn't. "Selgaunt?"

"Yes, sir."

"The national university in Saerloon?"

"I wanted to go a little bit away from home, sir."

"Understandable. You're, ah, how old exactly?"

"Nineteen, sir. I'll be twenty in Flamerule." This was one of her numerous fabrications. She'd turned twenty in Ches. So far as she could tell, there was nothing particularly significant about Ches. Her nameday didn't even fall on the Waukeenar holiday, which would at least have been a bit funny. Her best guess was that it had been Lessinor's nameday, his first one.

"Rising junior. I see. Communications?"

"Yes, sir."

"92 average. Impressive."

"Thank you. Sir." She'd gotten the idea after hearing about a particularly bored student who'd done the same at the University of Candlekeep and started a legend. SNU Saerloon hadn't bothered taking steps to prevent it. Elinor had done the work honestly, taken the same exams as Lessinor Coriver (taking the chance of a deliberate differentiating error here and there), and kept the handwriting consistent throughout. Elinor's writing, oddly enough, had turned out larger and more dramatic than Lessinor's small and fragile-looking hand, with more flourishes and bold swipes of the pen.

"I'm glad you've considered delaying your studies for this opportunity. I hope I'll be able to persuade you."

"I hope so too, sir."

He tapped his gathered papers on the desk to straighten them. He'd done that several times already. "Now why did you apply to the Benevolence Society, specifically?"

"Well..." she tilted her head. "It called to me, I guess. I read your Weave site and it sounds... it sounds very nice, what you do, sir." It had all sounded very nice, she recalled, but it was very short on what they actually _did_. She parroted some of the buzzwords, self-actualization and so on.

"And tell me, are you very religious?"

A more assertive personality would ask why he was flagrantly violating fair employment statutes, which she knew were much the same here and in Sembia. If she took vacation days to eat babies in the name of Cyric, that was her own business and possibly that of the police. Not that she'd flip Cyric a single copper let alone a whole baby, but it was the principle of the thing. Elinor said, "Not really, sir. I just live my life."

"Ah. Well, it seems there is much more to your life than you might have thought. You see, Elinor, I believe you possess the soul of a goddess."

Elinor wondered if this was the part where most people ran out screaming, or if he did enough pre-interview screening to prevent that. She widened her eyes and froze on the spot like the cutest, fluffiest rabbit he had ever seen. "You think so, sir?"

He put down the papers and leaned in. "Yes, of course. I can sense these things. In this building, in fact, I've managed to construct a nexus that operates on a range of divine frequencies, attracting the attention of godly incarnations to where they may be best prepared to assume their destined roles."

"Er, what kind of goddess do you think, sir?"

"I can already tell that you bear no taint of evil. You're at the very least one of the neutral powers – but I find it quite likely you're one of the goodly ones."

"Oh my."

"I don't suppose you would have any idea as to which goddess that might be?"

"Not really. I'm not pretty or fun or any of that." She knew from some experience what that kind of goddess would be like. In Selgaunt itself she'd found light-footed pretty and fun Julia Asjros, most likely Lliira (not to be confused with Leira, though Leira would probably like that). Julia Asjros hadn't met Elinor or Lessinor or any of the rest, let alone seen them for who they were. "Are... are you really sure? I wouldn't think _I'd_ be..."

"Nonsense, my dear. Eldath, maybe, or Selune, or any number of other possibilities. In fact, there's no definite proof that the gods always reincarnate in their original genders. In that case –" He looked to her leg. "– why, you might even be the likes of Ilmater."

"Well," said Elinor, in a mulling-over fashion, "if there's one thing I can't stand, it's suffering."

"There you are. It's my duty, and that of my fellow members of the Society, to help you uncover your true potential, whatever that might be." If there hadn't been not a notecard to be seen, she might've assumed he was reading from them. "We may, in turn, have some requests to make of you to help further the spiritual progress of your compatriots."

"What about the, ah, _evil_ gods, sir? What can we do about those?"

"That's another thing we might request your help for. Our secondary function is the neutralization of such wickedness, so that they can't spread their taint to the world once more."

Elinor wondered how Beshaba incarnate in the waiting room would discover that little detail.

***

Afterward, as she waited out on a restaurant patio for the waiter to return, she dialed someone. Elinor was one of the few who knew that in her second life, that someone had been born Arya Ledemarch. She didn't call her Arya, and _she_ didn't call her (or him, as he often was) Lessinor. "Ariel?" Ariel was what she went by at the moment. Crude but effective.

On the other end, she laughed. "I'm not here!"

"Good, good. I've had an interesting day."

"What sort of day?" When she asked something, usually she meant it, though she could pull tricks with leading questions if she was so inclined.

"I've met Beshaba, Garagos, and the guy who's been sending out those vibes." In the case of Zanek Reaves, once she ran a Weave search on her PDA the surname and the Westgate connection had nailed it. She wondered if he'd passed too or if Garagos had gone bugfuck enough to count as Evil. Zanek seemed to be keeping it together, though. She guessed he'd taken to Elinor because she looked so much like her mother; the thought was sour.

"Oh? What was he like?"

"Like the kind of guy who tells girls they're Ilmater incarnate so he can fuck them."

"Did he fuck you?"

"No, I'm too cute and fluffy and woobie-face and disabled. He probably thought it'd be like fucking an inspirational movie, the kind where she keels over at the end with a blessing on her lips for this cruel, cruel world." Ariel laughed again. "So how did Candlekeep go?"

"Very badly. Their _Cyrinishad_ wasn't the real thing and it hasn't woken up. It's still where they think it is. And I still haven't gotten to Waterdeep."

"It hasn't woken up? So, thoughts on Cyric?"

"Oh yes, I love him, I love him lots because you see I don't know a _thing_ about lies and when it comes to that he is an undisputed _genius_ and definitely not a rank amateur."

Elinor stifled a sigh of relief. "How goes it in Waterdeep?"

"Oh, I've already met Cyric and Shar and a whole bunch of others. We did lunch. And now we're at the beach, and I think Shar's getting sunburn."

"Great!"

"And I went to the museum and saw the moonblade. They definitely had the moonblade."

Elinor unwound that reversal. "Hmm. Anyone say why?"

"They say an elf didn't come in and draw it and light it up and walk out with it."

Her fingers flew on the keyboard of her PDA. "What family wasn't the moonblade from?"

"I don't know. Definitely not the Craulnobers."

"Interesting."

"No it isn't."

"Well, thanks again, and have fun."

"I'm sure I won't."

"Tell Cyric I love him."

She laughed again before she hung up.

It didn't take long for Elinor to find the blog, with its solid wall of comments proclaiming variations of So Fake U Noob! One of those comments was from another blog with a familiar name, in which Ariel remade herself as a thirty-four-year-old from Zakhara. And above that, the picture of the elf holding the glowing blade. He had green eyes and a large smile. In a dusty corner of her brain, something twitched. Then she scrolled down to the group shot, which contained in addition a tall drow with green eyes who wasn't smiling. Something twitched again. "Well, _well_."


	26. Kel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes from _Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad_. I have lots of thinly-disguised Feelings.

  
_wait a second says Mystra_  
_if i can't yank the weave from people_ **who flatten whole countries**  
_and people who_ **lock dudes up in caves to churn out magic items**  
_and people who want to kill my dudes with fire i just gave them_  
_and people who want to_ **kill me and be a god**  
_what is even the POINT_  
_and Tyr goes there must be a balance_  
_which is why half my judgments are super wise and the other half are dumb as fuck_  
_LIKE RIGHT NOW where I'm hereby indicting you for_  
_INCOMPETENCE THROUGH HUMANITY_  
_and Kelemvor goes dude  
_ _that's kind of racist_

\- Weave blogger "Myths Revamped," "The Guy Who Told Us This Story Can't Lie (Trust Him)," 2596 DR (hyperlinks in bold) 

**KEL**

_(Scales, skeleton hand)  
_

_6 Mirtul_

In the middle of tonight's judging, Jergal informed him the search for other godliness and general weird phenomena had borne fruit. Two drow, a grown man and a teenage girl (well, she'd have been teenage if she was human), plus a human in his twenties, were escorted to bypass the line and wait beside Jergal. Kel was calling people in chunks, first come first served, who'd died over a variety of centuries. That made things look easier to deal with. When he'd finished with this chunk (which had a plumber, excellent) he stood up and announced, "Okay. Half-hour break. So who're you?" 

The two drow were Kren Auzkovyn and Rauva Kenafin. Waterdhavians who'd died in the last tenday. The human was Helm Dellman; he died a while longer ago, and he hailed from the Moonsea. They wouldn't have waited in the lines because they were all Faithful and they'd have been waiting out there, maybe eating cake and drinking coffee (he'd started laying on soft drinks, too, and tea, and juice. Even carrot juice, once someone suggested it in passing). 

"What gods?" Kel had figured out how to take a spiral-bound notebook with him, to jot things down for future reference once awake. 

Jergal consulted his paperwork. _Kren Auzkovyn prays to both Vhaeraun and Erevan Ilesere. This would have led to some complications in earlier centuries, but currently it does not. Rauva Kenafin prays to the Nameless Banshee._

Rauva piped up. "Um, you don't know her name either? The Nameless?" 

_I do not._

"Because she didn't seem to know. She was pretty pissed about it." 

"So you actually met her?" 

She nodded. "It was confusing at first. She talked about herself in the third person. But I could kind of _feel_ what she was. Who she was. Even if I couldn't, well, give it a name." 

Dellman had been staring at the drow with open hostility. He prayed mainly to Tyr, it turned out, not Helm No-Last-Name (Kel wondered how many people named Helm _would_ ). He'd died ("Murdered!" which all three of them had been) back in Tarsakh. Maybe Kel couldn't do the whole judge thing on people he was supposed to pass on, but in the Spire with traces of Kelemvor's old magic floating around him he could do a kind of preliminary scan, get a sense of things. What he found was someone earnest who at least _believed_ he was doing the right thing, and was very concerned about doing it. Most people thought they'd been doing the right thing, especially in the last few centuries, and Kel would have to ask some more questions about anyone they might've hurt to check what they managed to rationalize. Though some of them were all mwahahaha about it, knew what they'd been doing and didn't care, and he didn't feel at all bad about giving them janitor duty (if only he could give them some properly filthy sewer duty). And he'd already had a few people who were tangled up in self-loathing, convinced they were evil no matter what they'd actually done or hadn't done, and Kel had added "therapists" to his wish list, next to architects and plumbers and electricians. 

"Why don't we do this in chronological order," said Kel. "I'll have some more questions for you later, Miss Kenafin. You too, Mr. Auzkovyn. Mr. Dellman, would you mind telling us what happened? How exactly you were murdered?" 

Mr. Dellman provided him with supplementary information, which wasn't unwelcome. "I work for the Benevolence Society, um, Mr. Kelemvor sir," he said. "Mr. Brightwood put it together. Tom Brightwood. He sees things, you see. He saw all this coming. He's a, well, a _seer._ I think the fancy word's diviner. Is that right?" 

"I think so." 

"And he knew we had to do our best to serve the good gods, and to keep down the bad ones." 

"Mm hm." 

Dellman nodded vigorously. "We're all pulling for the likes of you!" 

_The likes of me?_ In nearly all of the putting-things-in-boxes theological stuff he'd looked into so far, Kelemvor was classified morally Neutral. The exceptions came mainly in two flavors – the ones who figured that after Myrkul and Cyric how could he _not_ qualify as good, and the ones who figured no one who wasn't evil could've kept stuffing people in the Wall of the Faithless; it was just that he didn't cackle about it like Myrkul and Cyric. 

No one, thought Kel, could possibly be _good_ and do that. 

Though all the same Tyr stood by, and Sune, and Lathander, and Chauntea, and _they_ stayed good, the greatest goods of Toril, and who knew how many other gods who didn't have a seat on the Circle… 

"He hired me when he came to Moonsea on business," Dellman continued. "So he could exercise his divination. He says gods'll probably gravitate to places that're important to them in their last life. He hasn't had a lot of luck yet, because he hasn't figured out how to find them. He's been working on something magical for that, and we've all been checking the news in case of anything peculiar. So his first stop was Zhentil Keep – he figured he'd sense at least one of 'em hanging round there. Bane, Xvim, Cyric, one of those." 

"Did he find one?" One who was lean and pale and dark-haired and hawk-nosed? 

"He did, but that one went wrong. That one, this tiefling, we think it was Xvim, there was a mess, he threw Warner out a window, someone called the police. The _police_! And you know how the police are, if you say you're apprehending this kid because he's Iyachtu Xvim incarnate," Kel didn't often hear anyone try to say _Iyachtu Xvim_ aloud, and he was doing his best, "it's _you_ that goes in jail." 

"Uh huh. How old was he?" 

"He looked 'bout as old as you look now, sir." 

"What was his name?" Dellman blinked at him. "I mean, legally speaking. What name would the _police_ call him?" 

"Oh, that name. Ximun Perr. What kind of crazy name is Ximun, I ask you. Bet it's some kind of demon name." 

Kel thought it sounded like an Amnian name. "What was he doing before you showed up?" 

"Dunno exactly. But he had one of those student IDs, he used them to buy his movie tickets. So… probably he was going to college. Kind of funny, isn't it? Why would a god go to college?" 

"Okay. Go on. So the police came." 

"So we left fast. We stopped off in Hillsfar, to regroup and all, and in Hillsfar we found another one." 

"Which one was that?" 

"Bane. Definitely Bane. Not just 'cause he was Xvim's spitting image, or, well, Xvim'd be _his_ spitting image. He radiated it, you know. You could –" He glanced toward Rauva. "You could feel it. The _menace_ of him. Just rolling off in waves. Big guy, filled a room all by himself, black hair like his heart, 'least his eyes weren't that creepy-ass green…" 

Jergal made a noise that might have been his approximation of a discreet clearing of the throat. Dellman looked back up at Kel. He sat there in his best approximation of business casual because a whole suit or a fancy tunic or something felt ridiculous but people might think he wasn't taking this seriously if he stayed in T-shirt and jeans, or worse, PJs. Kel knew he was tall ( _not as tall as Ariel, though_ ) and stocky and square-jawed, his hair was black and cut shaggy, and his eyes were cat-green. Dellman flushed and closed his mouth. 

"How old was he?" 

"Younger'n me, but not by much." 

"And what was he doing?" 

"Well, some kind of managing." 

"What did he manage?" 

His flush deepened. Kel wondered what he could be embarrassed about. "Something called a Fentan's." 

"And what's a Fentan's?" 

He shifted his weight – right foot, left foot. Kel sighed. 

In the antechamber he'd added once he figured out how to tweak his floor plan, his efficient petitioners had in the next group of judgees and were plying them with refreshments. The mood, verging on convivial, promptly keeled over once they saw Kel poking his head in. He winced. "Uh, sorry. Can anyone here tell me what a Fentan's is? I think in this context it's a business. Something you manage." 

" _Oh_ ," said a young human woman who was pouring a goblin a root beer, "I remember. It's an ice cream parlor." 

"Ice cream?" 

She nodded. He thought he remembered her face and maybe her name – something to do with flowers – but they were already starting to blur together. Maybe if he got all of those powers back they'd come with eidetic memory. "Stedd and I were in Athkatla once, for a conference, and we had the _best_ banana split there. They used to be Jansen's, but there were too many places called Jansen's in the city already. The locals loved it. They were starting to talk about franchising." 

"Okay. Got it. Thanks, um…" 

"Lilly, dear. Lilly Sands. My Stedd and I ran, well, we ran a funeral parlor. Not nearly as appetizing, I'm afraid." 

"Thank you, Ms. Sands. Sorry about the, uh…" 

"No need, I passed when I was eighty-two." 

"Oh. Okay. Um. Thanks again." He closed the door and turned back. He waited until he was back on the throne before he trusted himself to speak. "Mr. Dellman? Are you telling me Bane rules an ice cream franchise with an iron fist?" 

To the side, Kren Auzkovyn began to snicker. Dellman glowered back at him. "I guess it _sounds_ funny. But sir, all due respect, today ice cream tomorrow the world." 

"Okay. What was his name?" 

"Dorney Blackthorne." 

It sounded like a nickname (Bane-guy had a nickname? Besides probably Bane, because who named their kid Bane?). The name could be Ildorn, Keldorn, Dornathan, Dornabar, just plain Dorn, an assortment of others. "Okay. So did he go any better than Xvim? I'm guessing not, since, er…" 

"Don't know for sure how well it went. Died before it finished. But no one else's showed up, so at least they're alive. Anyone could've taken him down, it'd be Tom Brightwood and the rest of his boys. Good guys, every one. Our best bet, we figured, was to whack him over the head, hard and fast, but he didn't go down. And then he yelled, ' _Freeze_!' And they did, everyone he could see. Just his voice did that. So I jumped on him because he _hadn't_ seen me, and he stuck up his fist and… that was it." 

"Thanks, Mr. Dellman. You've been very helpful. Sorry about the whole murder thing. If anything about this comes up, I'll be sure and let you know. And if Tyr shows, I'll definitely let you know. Now go get some cake." 

"And ice cream?" Kren stage-whispered to Rauva. She stifled her laugh. 

This time, Dellman studiously ignored them. "Thanks, sir." 

***

Rauva was shot in the chest with an arrow, by an elf on a rooftop, in the middle of the night, coming back from a friend's nameday party ("Poor Fredrik," she said, "Can't imagine what he had to put up with the next day"). Then, as she was still processing her arrival on the Fugue Plane, an avatar of her goddess had appeared before her. She was abrasive, Rauva admitted, but she'd also questioned her closely about her murderer and was definitely interested in seeing him brought to justice. So that was maybe another two, her goddess and whoever shot her. Jergal had scrolls that held rundowns on all the gods, even the dead ones, (especially the dead ones) for judging aids. He consulted one and informed them: _The most likely candidates in the Seldarine appear to be either Solonor Thelandira or Shevarash. W_ hen Kel asked, he exposited about those candidates. 

He read the scroll about the Nameless Banshee himself. He thought he remembered her a bit, from horror movies. She was a goddess of the undead and she'd died for good in the Age of Heroes, late fourteenth century. There'd been some sort of magical ritual that ripped the target's name out of the universe, and after she lost it she'd puffed out like _that_ because it was important to gods that people knew who you were. "Yikes. How hard is that ritual?" 

_Ao greatly reduced its efficacy shortly afterward. I understand that these mages had begun to contemplate using the ritual to eliminate most of what remained of the drow pantheon, and that would have posed a threat to the Balance._

"That's good, I guess." He imagined Ao as an irate mod of some Weave game, faceless, nerfing this and banhammering that. "But she stayed dead, so I guess he didn't like her that much?" Like at the end of the Time of Troubles, he'd read, Torm came back but not Bane, not until later. 

_I couldn't say, my lord._

When he looked hard, Rauva seemed decent enough. The goddess she'd been praying to might have a history of zombie armies and bloody vengeance, but she herself didn't want that any more than the sharrans Kel was acquainted with wanted to put out the sun and the moon. He just hoped she didn't get an unpleasant surprise when the Nameless, whatever her name was, opened up shop again. If she counted as False then Kel could probably yoink her and take care of her, but it'd be a bad shock all the same. "Sorry about your loss of life." 

She laughed again at that. That was nice to hear. "Er, another thing?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Would you mind if I stuck around in here for now? All of this judging and all is, well, it's kind of scary but it's kind of fascinating too, to watch." 

"Don't see why not. Just don't get in Jergal's way or bother the people in line." 

"Thanks, sir." 

"You can go ahead and get a drink or something outside, if you want. I'll be busy with this a while longer." She looked about and at Kren, and decided she'd go. 

Kren was up next. He wasn't nearly so blameless as Rauva, and he knew it though he didn't quite revel in it. His attitude was still enough that Kel frowned if not grimaced, and he probably looked pretty harsh from the way Kren looked and then didn't look at him. No quips now. "A couple of guys," he said, scrutinizing his feet. "One of them, the kid, he was an elf, probably the same as hers." 

"Why do you think so?" said Kel. 

"That one had it in for drow." 

"I see," said Kel, and thought: probably the one called Shevarash then, the one who specially hated drow. "How so?" 

"Um. For starters, see, I'd picked up this nice old coffee table with Erevan's star on it. He saw it after he broke in and he flipped out yelling about desecration and how dare I and Erevan ought to smite me. Erevan Ilesere," he said with the air of someone launching onto a favorite subject, "way back in the Age of Heroes, patronized the _Serpent of Waterdeep_ and never felt like smiting _him…_ " He shut his mouth abruptly. It was hard to see a blush on skin that dark, but Kel would bet ducats to doughnuts as he lowered his head that he had as much blood going to his face as Dellman had. He scribbled: low-priority, check up on whoever the Serpent of Waterdeep was. 

The physical description of the elf also matched Rauva's. He'd even said, and Kren overheard, that he was better with a bow than the gun he'd used to shoot Kren. If it were only in here he might well have just parroted her, but the separate screening interviews by the combined squad of petitioners, Faithless, and False had given the same results. Jergal came up with those papers seconds after being asked. He produced things so fast, maybe he wouldn't find as much use for a computer as Kel thought. Kel used the interview transcript as a rough guideline for the personal report. 

"Any matches on the human?" 

_Cross-referencing suggests the most likely candidate is the minor power Hoar, or Assuran. He is a known ally of Shevarash, and one of his titles is the Lord of Three Thunders. He was also allied to the Nameless, but more loosely._

"And he wasn't there when Rauva died, that we know of. Is he some kind of storm god too?" 

_No, my lord. He acquired the title after slaying such a god – I can give you that file, if you wish – but did not also acquire his dominion over storms. His particular dominion is revenge and poetic justice. However, he did gain the ability to manifest thunder on appropriate occasions._

"I see. And, Mr. Auzkovyn, why was _he_ there?" That hadn't been in the interview. 

"… I told one of my boys to hit-and-run a cop's daughter." He was visibly discomfited saying this. Maybe some of that was overdue contrition, but most of it was probably knowing that Kel wouldn't like hearing that. 

"If it makes you feel better," Kel found himself saying, "it doesn't really matter what I think of you. You're mostly out of my jurisdiction anyhow." And who knew, maybe those two gods Jergal had mentioned endorsed hitting girls with cars. He might have heard their names around, but not very much otherwise. "Did she die?" 

Kren looked helplessly at Jergal, who obliged him. _She is not yet dead_. 

Kel said, "Do you mean, she's going to die _soon_ , or…?" 

_Her life is not in immediate jeopardy._

"That's something. Could you give me the scrolls on, ah, Vhaeraun and Erevan?" If they did endorse it, he wanted to know now instead of being nastily surprised later. Jergal gave them. "Thanks." 

Erevan Ilesere didn't endorse it. Vhaeraun might have. Vhaeraun got another big scroll; he'd died a little before the Nameless Banshee. Something about a fight to the death with his twin sister, they were a bickering good-and-evil set like Shar and Selune or Tymora and Beshaba. Kel thought harder and remembered that most of what little he'd heard of Vhaeraun this day and age didn't involve stealing things and taking over the world, even if Kren followed that side of him. He'd heard his name invoked by perfectly normal people, unless drow and half-drow didn't count as normal. He'd been shined-up posthumously, maybe, so that there were two Good Twins. Wasn't like he was around to tell his followers to stop being so nice and not-racist. And Shar's name got tossed around enough. 

Kren asked even more hesitantly than Rauva to stick around in the throne room, too, and looked surprised when Kel said okay. 

***

Hours later, long after the routine had started back up and Rauva had returned with a root beer float in hand, he was saying: "Let me get this straight, you waste of air: you sent all those kids to hellpit reformatories because they kicked you back five hundred a head?" 

Fucker had made most of his tax-deductible donations to Arabel's Church of Tyr, which was the kind of thing you'd expect for a judge. If Tyr was anything like the stories he wouldn't have put up with that shit (the kids weren't even Faithless!). A cut to the Vigilant of Helm Officers Memorial Fund, too, and if those _other_ stories were right then Helm had liked kids too, and watched over them specially (those stories had been a comfort when he was a kid, because then Kel could imagine Helm pulling him out of the Wall). Way back when, he knew now, Kelemvor had started out judging people based on how good or bad they were and gotten smacked down for reasons that, more than a thousand years later, didn't make that much sense to him (at least not without a bunch of angry gods staring him in the face). Then he went back to Standard Operating Procedure of stuffing the Faithless into the Wall and judging the False on how False they were. The nicest person in the world could get the worst punishment because for some reason they prayed to an asshole like Bane or Cyric. Which was even worse because some of these assholes, like Bane and Cyric, had this tendency to freak and call crusades on people worshipping anyone else so decent people could get stuck praying to them because they liked their skins where they were. He was going it _old-_ old-school right now because fuck that, but it still felt good in the back of his head when things matched up so neat. Not even the mass-murderer had managed to piss him off this bad. Maybe because this was so not-long-ago, so close by – in Cormyr, even, in Arabel! And he was so _sane_ about it – he wanted money and he got it and that was all that mattered to him. 

Kel was still trying to think up a suitably awful sentence that he wouldn't be sorry about and take back later when the douchebag in question, who'd been trying to muster a sentence of his own, fell back on his ass with a squawk. Someone had cut in line ahead of him. 

This someone seemed as insubstantial as, before this, he would've imagined a ghost looked like. His form flickered with some kind of spiritual static. Kel's first impression was of a lot of black. Then it began to settle. He became pretty sure he was looking at yet another drow – a tall one who'd dyed his hair green. 

Kren Auzkovyn said, "Oh!" 

Rauva said, "What? Who is it?" 

The newcomer looked at Kel with eyes that were just as green. In a voice from the bottom of a well he said, "Wait a second, did I just die?" 

"Only mostly, I think," said Kel. When he concentrated like he did on the moral analysis thing, let his eyes slide just out of focus and into a different sort of focus, this guy looked strange in a whole other way. He flared in this kind of sight. Kel couldn't call it brighter or darker than the other soul-flares in the room, but it was definitely far more intense, even if it wasn't as intense as what Kel could see emanating from himself. And somewhere, Kel could feel it, his heart was still beating, actually pretty fast. "Okay, everyone, intermission. Sorry for the delay. Take a rain check, go get more coffee or whatever. I'll get back to you soon as I can. And I'll get back to _you_ , asshole." 

As the others in line filed out, and the previous first-in-line scrambled out, Kren croaked, "Is that… are you really…" 

"I think so?" Kel noticed that his feet were bare and his toes glittered with gold. He wore all black, slacks and a shirt. He didn't seem to have been much more ready for this than Kel. And he didn't look much older than Kel, equivalently speaking. "So you're Kren Auzkovyn." 

"Right." His voice wavered. "That's me." 

"And Rauva Kenafin?" 

"That's right," said Rauva. 

Kel said, "You here to pick him up?" 

"Not… not yet. Got to find my keys. Do spring cleaning and all that. I'm Veldrin Auzkovyn." 

" _Oh_!" said Kren, who now sounded like he might break out in hysterics. 

"Keldath Grayson. Call me Kel. I'd shake your hand but you're looking kind of not-there. Are you two related?" 

"Not exactly. The Auzkovyns are very open, anyone who wants can take the name. Goes back to the Age of Heroes. That's what he did, even if he never went to the reunions." 

In a very thin voice, all hysteria gone in a flash, Kren said "Sorry." 

"Sorry? About _that_?" 

"And this is Jergal," said Kel before Kren could reply, because it seemed weird to leave him out. 

"Oh. Hi, Jergal." 

_Well met_ , Jergal replied after a moment. 

"Trying not to make any assumptions here, so, are you also anything, anyone, else?" 

"Well, I was Kelemvor in a past life." 

"You're sure about that?" 

"Pretty sure." 

"Then I guess I can say I'm pretty sure I'm Vhaeraun." 

"Oh." He pulled open the scroll and consulted it again. Apparently Vhaeraun wore his heart on his sleeve, or at least on his hair. So it wasn't dye. "That makes sense. You know him then?" 

"Kinda sorta. God thing." 

"Just double-checking, what's your current position on killing little girls?" 

If Kren hadn't been so dark Kel might've said he blanched. 

Veldrin blinked. "Generally speaking, it's bad?" 

"Generally?" 

"Well, I don't like to shut myself into absolutes except for, you know, the really obvious stuff like 'Sexism is bad' and 'racism is bad' –" His lip twitched and blue momentarily bloomed in the green for some reason Kel didn't know. "– and 'pointlessly stabbing people in the face is bad.' I'm sure someone could come up with one of those 'moral conundrums' where you have to kill a kid to save a hundred other people or something and then when you think up a way to not have to they keep grabbing their scene back and revising it because they have a _point_ to make… I'm rambling, aren't I?" 

"Kind of." 

"Yeah. Not okay with that." Just as Kel was starting to wonder if that meant Kren was False after all, and really _was_ his problem, Veldrin turned to Kren and went on. "Which doesn't mean I'm going in for thumbscrews or anything I might've used to do. What _did_ I use to do…? Never mind. But the rules've kind of changed around and I guess I used to be a raging asshole who _would've_ been okay with it if there was something in it for him. Me." 

Kren said, for the third time on his part (Kel had already lost track of how many times it had been said in the last hour), "Oh." 

"Most aren't like that nowadays, they got better, but it was a gradual thing so I can't draw a real _line_ anywhere… and it'd be pretty assholish too to punish someone because the rules changed, especially if there wasn't an _announcement_ or anything. It's not as though I'm about to start smiting people who get chummy with dwarves, so why do it to people who're doing it by the old book? So you were keeping it old-school, huh?" 

"Something like that," Kren muttered, with his head low. He was starting to look a bit hopeful again. "There _were_ some dwarves I hung out with..." 

"Guess I'll be picking you up later, if I ever figure out the whole planes and realms thing. Just, you know, don't expect high fives about that part." 

Rules _did_ change, Kel knew. Without the gods to lay down the law people had started doing it a lot more, but that didn't not happen when the gods were still around. 

He remembered: There'd been a man. His name was Zale. He'd fallen into lava. He'd died without doing what he'd meant to, knowing he didn't have a chance in the Hells of doing it, but that was okay with him because he died doing something good and brave and he had full confidence that in the end good things happened to good people. 

_But you are Faithless! Who will reward you?_

_You, Lord Kelemvor! Trust your justice…_

The man had trusted him. And Kelemvor had stuffed him into the Wall. He didn't remember that part, exactly, but he had to have done it. He hadn't made exceptions for a friend ( _Adon of Sune, Adon of Mystra, Adon of No_ _One_ ), why would he make exceptions for a random guy? 

And he could see the fear on the face of Avner of Hartsvale, who thought he'd been praying to Diancastra. "You can't have him," he'd told Mask, "he's one of _mine_ ," and then he'd said, "No, actually, here you go, and fuck you Avner." 

Kel shuddered and returned his attention to Veldrin saying, "If I'm not dead, got any ideas what I _am_?" 

Jergal looked to Kel, who nodded, and took care of it. _Like my lord, you have begun your second life clad in a mortal shell. It is likely that body has been placed in potentially fatal jeopardy._

"The last thing I remember _was_ Shar eating my face…" 

Kel decided not to ask if that was literal. 

_Your divine essence would not pass through the Fugue Plane, but the mortal part of your consciousness has attempted to. It should be drawn back to the Material Plane in due course, once the immediate danger has passed._

"You talk like it happened before," said Kel. "Did it?" 

_Several times before you arrived, my lord. In most cases the subjects were far less coherent. The realm, also, was considerably less coherent before your return._

"So a near-death experience, then," said Veldrin. "But what about my, you know, divine part?" 

_That should have remained in your body._

Kel, looking out of focus, could feel that Veldrin's heart rate was slowing toward normal. They might not have much longer. 

"Shit. I don't want to wake up and find out the hotel got demolished by a multi-god throwdown." 

"You've got other people like us with you? Besides Shar?" 

"Shar's not with us. But yeah, there's –" A moment of arithmetic. "– six others there at least, and there's a seventh that might've shown up by now. Others, too, out of town." 

"And they know too?" 

"Not exactly. They know weird things have been going on, and we all agree the gods have something to do with it. That they're hanging around in our heads at least. But at most the others seem to think we're something like Chosen. It's still hard to wrap your brain around, but it's easier than supposing you're a god." 

"So have you figured out the others, too?" 

"Yeah." He ticked them off on his fingers, which snapped out from his hands like switchblades. Kel prepared to scribble some more. "Our seven, well, our eight. Me. Erevan Ilesere. Selvetarm. Eilistraee. Hoar, but he goes by Assuran. Shevarash – he'll get his, though Plan A needs tweaking. Sharess. And Mystra. There's the Nameless on her way, and out of town there's Sehanine Moonbow, Labelas Enoreth…" 

Jergal produced more scrolls. Kel took them and nodded at him on automatic. 

Mystra. The girl in his dreams had summoned a dragon that scorched the wood of the tavern table. She was taller than him, darker than him. Her eyes were dark with red flecks or blue-white with inner light. Her long hair was dark, too, dark as midnight. 

That had been the name she had then. Midnight. That was just _a_ name, though. "Got a weird question." 

"Shoot." 

"Mystra – what's her name? Her human name?" 

"Ariel Shessair. That help?" 

_Ariel Manx._ One out of two, same as him. Kel. Ariel. Maybe, somewhere, a Cyric (who named their kid Cyric?). "It does. Thanks." 

Now he could realize that for some time Veldrin had been slowly fading out. He seemed to notice too. "You think we could try getting in touch without any more near-death experiences?" 

If this went through, he'd have one more confirmation this wasn't an elaborate dream. "I'm in the Arabel phone book." 

"We're over in Waterdeep now, but here's my cell." He recited it. "And my email –" He recited that. "And the High Forest phone book. Under Relonor Auzkovyn. That's Dad, regular Dad. He'll know what you're talking about." 

"I gotcha. Stay safe, hope not to see you here again?" 

He laughed again, in another burst of blue. His laughter faded and the blue was the last thing Kel could see before he was gone entirely in a burst of dark-light-darklight. 

***

When he ran Weave searches while waiting for his coffee to finish brewing, Veldrin Auzkovyn and Ariel Shessair were on the dean's lists for Myth Drannor and Silverymoon. He drank the coffee and munched a raisin roll with his left hand as he went through more results, clicking between windows, sites he wouldn't have had a reason to visit before. Gymnastics and science fairs, essay contests on subjects that made his head spin, so on and so forth. 

He wondered when he would see them again, if not in here. He could get in touch, at least. Over in Waterdeep, Veldrin had said, eight of them. A hotel. It sounded like they were traveling. Hopefully they could travel here before too long. He didn't know about them, but he had commitments. 

He found the obituaries for Stedd and Lilly Sands, too, and stared at them for a while. Their daughter had inherited their funeral parlor, and presided over their services as a debut. 

And he looked up the one Fentan's in Hillsfar and skimmed the reviews with "manager" in his browser's Find box. Service was prompt, quality consistently high, receipt provided or your order free, with an FYI that signing up fake people for extra birthday cones was cause for immediate ejection. Whatever else he was, apparently Bane-guy ran a tight ship. A ship full of ice cream.


End file.
